


Decepshun's Shadow

by GoblinCatKC



Category: Dragon Booster
Genre: Blood and Violence, M/M, Post-Series, starts a day or two after the show ends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-02-10 22:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 65,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12921408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinCatKC/pseuds/GoblinCatKC
Summary: An accident on the race track brings a little darkness to Penn stables. Moordryd and Artha slowly grow closer as Moordryd has to decide which side to back in the coming war and how to survive the choice he makes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this ten years ago, and the difference in my writing shows. But I love this old show too much to not finish the damn thing, no matter how long it takes.

As happened sometimes in long races, Moordryd found his mind wandering, and once again he replayed the battle he fought with Dragon Booster against the ancient dragon warrior. The loss of his mentor's voice both relieved and bothered him. Free of Armegaddon's influence, he was beyond the ancient warrior's manipulation, but now he also lacked a teacher. The ancient techniques he'd mastered were useful, but he knew no one who could teach him anything else. He'd briefly considered sneaking into his father's private library to search for academy texts or even ancient history books, but his relationship with his father was already strained. He didn't want to risk being caught and facing Word's ire.

He felt Decepshun tense for the next jump and tightened his grip, leaning forward in the saddle as they cleared the wide gap in the track and landed on the next part of the course. Several seconds passed before he heard the heavy thud of dragons landing behind him, so he knew they were still comfortably ahead. Instead of the usual swinging weights and sudden obstacles, this course was designed solely for speed and agility. With no targets to hit and nothing more difficult than long jumps and loops, he was free to put Decepshun's energy into her red thrusters, and while the other riders lost precious seconds guiding their dragons around hairpin turns, Decepshun ran the way she wanted to and cut such tight corners that she steadily pulled away from the pack.

Finally they came to the last curve, which leveled out into a long straightaway before ending at the finish line. The crowd roared as he came into sight, and he spared a glance at the huge monitor near Vociferous to see where everyone else was. He grinned. Even the stable brat was several lengths behind. Still, he knew Artha was capable of last minute surprises--

The track exploded. Huge pieces of asphalt hurled in all directions as thick black smoke billowed up between him and the finish line. He heard screams from the crowd and then the announcer's confused voice, sabotage and Moordryd Paynn's too close to stop.

Decepshun didn't try to stop. Lowering her head in determination, she plowed into the smoke and leaped blind over the gap of which neither of them could guess the beginning or end. It could have been a few meters, it could have been half a mile.

Moordryd ignited his red thruster gear, but after one quick burst, the engines clogged and sputtered in the smoke. Wishing he had Armeggadon's guidance, he extended his gliders and hoped Decepshun with her keen sight would spot the track sooner than he would.

He sighed in relief when she angled her body for a quick descent, but as he breathed in again, he choked and coughed. He'd assumed the smoke was thick because of burning asphalt, but it tasted like oil and clung to his skin, creeping down his throat.

The explosion wasn't the main attack, he realized. This smoke is.

"Don't breathe in!" he yelled. "Decepshun, don't--"

They burst from the black cloud into clear air again, but something was wrong. They were coming in too fast. Decepshun tossed her head back and forth, blinking the poison out of her eyes, but he knew she couldn't see where she was going anymore and they were up so high that he didn't think either of them would survive a clumsy fall.

Leaning back, Moordryd summoned a rush of black energy through his body, letting it envelop both him and Decepshun before he fired a mag-inversion against the ground, bringing them down as slow as he could. He knew something else was wrong when he didn't feel her stand beneath him. Instead she lay down as if asleep and he slid out of the saddle before she rolled sideways. He collapsed next to her, trying to hear her breathing over his own rasping, but the announcer's voice made it hard to hear anything.

"Moordryd Paynn makes the leap, but his dragon is down!" Vociferous' voice echoed through the suddenly quiet stands as everyone stood or leaned forward in their seats, trying to get a good view. "The rest of the riders are blocked off."

At the center of everyone's attention, Moordryd had never felt so alone. Wisps of smoke drifted up from Decepshun's tightly clenched teeth as she gave several barking coughs.

"Scales, scales, scales," he whispered, trying to get his hands between her teeth to pull her mouth open. "You have to breathe it out! Open up!"

His hands slipped off and he held them up to his face. His gloves were coated in the black soot that covered her skin. If this was what was in her, he didn't know how he could get it out. Her breathing started to slow down as she grew exhausted. Knowing that she was slipping away, he squeezed his eyes shut and put his arms around her neck as if he could save her just by holding her. All he heard was his sick wheezing and her weakening heartbeat as she suffocated.

Something warm passed over him like a breeze and when he opened his eyes again, the entire world had turned gold. He sat straight and looked up into the face of the black and gold dragon as golden energy flowed over him and through Decepshun, covering her entire body. The oily soot slid off her skin and, with renewed vitality, she managed to cough wet black clumps onto the track. After several seconds, she sighed and lay down again, her breathing still labored but no longer life threatening.

"Are you all right?" Artha asked, jumping off of Beau's back.

Moordryd fought the familiar urge to fight and shook his head. "It still hurts to breathe."

"Let me take you and Decepshun back to my father," Artha said. "I'm sure he'll know what to do."

Although Moordryd tried to hide it, something of his fear showed on his face. Let them take Decepshun back to Penn stables? They were enemies. There was no way they'd let this kind of opportunity slip by. Grunting in pain, he got to his feet, stumbling when he tried to stand upright.

"You're both hurt," Artha said, coming closer and raising his hand. "You need--"

"I don't need anything!" Moordryd snapped, smacking away Artha's hand. The sudden move sent him off balance and he fell back on his butt. To the rest of the stadium, it looked like he'd tried to take Artha's hand and missed.

"Why should I trust you?" he growled, coughing black flecks onto his gloves. "We're enemies."

Artha didn't lower his hand. "I'll promise not to fight if you won't."

Moordryd glared at him out of the corner of his eye and didn't move.

"Oh, come on!" Artha cried exasperatedly. "Your dragon's sick, and you're not looking too good, either. Are you gonna sit there and let her die just 'cause you're afraid to trust me?"

Why did the stable brat have such a way of making his fears seem so trivial? "You'll hurt her. You'll take my gauntlet. You'll--"

"I swear on my honor," Artha said. "I won't betray your trust. And if I'm right, I think we're gonna need you to be the shadow booster before this war is over."

Moordryd bowed his head. His lungs constricted as if someone clenched a fist around them. No doubt Decepshun felt just as bad. It wasn't even a choice.

"How?" he asked. "She's too big to carry--" Another coughing fit nearly sent him to his knees.

Artha reached out and grabbed his hand, slinging his arm over his shoulders to support him.

"Beau can mag her over his back," he said. "And you can ride up front with me."

Squeezing his eyes shut in pain, Moordryd felt the dragon mag them up into Beau's saddle with Artha in front, and then felt Beau's stance shift as Decepshun settled across his back. A second later, they were moving quickly through the streets and out of view. He groaned and let himself rest against Artha's shoulder, the gold armor warm and almost comfortable. Was he leaving black streaks across the hard plating? He didn't care.

"Great," he mumbled. "Rescued by the dragon loser in front of everyone."

"Don't worry," Artha said, a smile coloring his voice. "The blast took out the monitors and cameras. The only people who saw you are in the stands, and they don't know you hate me."

"Right," Moordryd murmured. "Hate."


	2. Chapter 2

Strange to ride on someone else's dragon. Even when he stole dragons for his father, he never tried to get on their backs. He'd only ridden one other dragon besides Decepshun, but the one time he'd ridden Beau, he'd been too focused on deposing his father. Now that he was back on Beau again, the difference between him and Decepshun was stark. She was almost serpentine in her movements, smoothly gliding around and through every obstacle. Beau, on the other hand, was sheer power, galloping so hard that the riders felt the shock waves of his paws hitting the asphalt.

"How much farther?" he mumbled, wondering if Artha would even hear him over the wind and Beau's running.

"We're here," Artha answered.

Slowing Beau down as they came into the stables, Artha took them into an empty stall and gently lay Decepshun on the floor. Without waiting for help, Moordryd stood in the saddle and stepped off, landing off-balance and falling on his side next to his dragon. He groaned and sat up, leaning against Decepshun as he opened his eyes. The stable spun around and everything inside wavered like a mirage, blurring and melting into each other.

"Are you trying to hurt yourself?" Artha snapped, jumping to land beside him. "Moordryd?"

The pale teen didn't answer. His eyes stared at nothing, unfocused and too bright. Leaving them under Beau's supervsion, Artha ran out of the stable and into the house, calling his father's name. Moordryd heard him as if he was yelling underwater and far away.

Before he could give into sleep, Decepshun shifted under him, grunting as she tried to lift her head. Belatedly, he remembered that she still wore his saddle.

"Hang on," he mumbled. "Just a second."

Turning over onto his hands and knees, he shook his head a few times to clear it, then got to his feet and put his hands on the saddle. Thanks to years of practice, he didn't need to see what he was doing, his hands following the familiar routine of disengaging the mag-locks. Once it was loose enough, Decepshun gave a shake of her head and let it slide off.

Moordryd dropped back to the ground and draped himself across his dragon's neck. She barely felt his light weight, but she turned her head slightly to brush her snout against his leg. He responded by rubbing the top of her head the way he always did when she was spooked.

"Don' worry, girl," he whispered, slurring his words together. "I won' let 'em hurt you. I'll call Cain, get the crew together. Even stable brat can't stop the whole crew."

She snorted. Whether she agreed or thought he was being ridiculous, he couldn't tell.

"I'll call him," he continued, lowering his head. "As soon as I can get up again."

But he didn't feel like getting up anytime soon. He lay his head down, then winced when his helmet got in the way. Yanking it off, he tossed it aside and lay down again. Their combined labored breathing made sleep impossible, but at least he could rest. When he heard heavy footsteps coming towards their stall, he barely cracked an eye open.

Connor Penn stood in the doorway with a weird staff in his hand. Moordryd wondered if it was a jack stick, but as long as Penn didn't look like he was going to hit him, he didn't care. Funny, he didn't look as stern as he remembered, but then Penn hadn't caught him trying to steal a dragon this time.

"Can you tell what it is?" Artha's voice floated around them, but Artha himself was out of sight. "Decepshun couldn't breathe when I found them, and Beau's energy only helped a little."

Stepping closer, Penn nodded once as he looked over the black dragon and then knelt beside Moordryd. "I recognize it. And they're lucky. Their black draconium energy probably saved them."

"Saved them from what?" Artha asked.

"Draconian blight. It's a very old poison made from a plant that I was sure was extinct." Penn frowned in thought. "Not too many people would even know about it now. I would've thought only Word would do such a thing, but he wouldn't try to kill his own son. Unless it was a plan that backfired?"

Even starved for air and exhausted from simply breathing, Moordryd recognized an accusation when he heard it. He started to laugh derisively, but stopped when a coughing fit scraped his throat raw.

"Forget it," he rasped, trying to glare at Penn. "My father's not trying to kill off dragons. If he wanted to, he could've done that any time."

"No, he's just trying to start a war," Penn threw back. "A war that'll kill hundreds of dragons and humans."

Moordryd shrugged. Only if humans were stupid enough to fight back, but arguing the point didn't matter. "It wasn't my father, so think of someone else."

"Armegaddon," Penn said. "He would know about it and actually use it. But I don't know why he would target a race."

"We can worry about that later," Artha said. His gold armor flashed into view, but Moordryd only saw it as a big blur. "There's an antidote, right?"

"Yes, the same flower you used to cure dragon's bane. It just has to be processed a little differently." Penn escorted his son out of the stalls, his voice fading as they walked away. "You've got to hurry, though. You may have gotten rid of most of the poison, but unless they breathe in the antidote soon, they still might not recover..."

Wonderful, Moordryd thought. His life lay in the hands of stable brat. Beneath him, Decepshun whuffed and stretched out, trying to get comfortable.

"It'll be okay," he said. "If he was willing to save my father, then I'm sure he'll try to save us. Besides, who would you rather have looking for a cure, him or Cain?"

She didn't snort or bark a laugh or do anything else that let him know she was listening. As she groaned and twisted, Moordryd started to realize something was wrong besides her breathing. He sat up again and spotted black dust falling in front of his eyes, and when he touched his hair and face, he found the same poisonous residue.

"Looks like stable brat didn't get it all off us," he grumbled. He looked around and winced as the sudden twist of his head made the room spin. Getting back on his feet, he leaned against the wall and slowly scanned the room until he found the hose and buckets all stables kept on hand to bathe their dragons. He stumbled towards it and turned the valve, releasing a steady stream of water.

First things first. He could only take care of Decepshun if he wasn't too sick to walk. Holding the hose over his head, he raised his face into the stream and let the water flow over his hair and down his body. He shivered. Cold.

"You should take a real shower," Penn said.

The only reason Moordryd didn't outwardly startle was the poison making his responses sluggish, but his hand still tightened on the hose. With a sneer, he ignored the older man.

"And get rid of the suit," Penn continued. "The poison could be lingering inside it."

"It's sealed so nothing gets in," Moordryd said. "Besides, there's too much black draconium woven inside. Can't lose it just 'cause of a little poison."

Once his head felt a little clearer, he unwound the hose from its holder on the wall and carried it over to his dragon. "Brace yourself, girl," he warned her.

After the initial shock, she settled down with little more than a grunt as he worked the remaining slime off of her. He wondered how the smoke could have left such a tangible mark that took several buckets just to rinse Decepshun clean. He heard Penn doing something behind him and looked over his shoulder, watching him sweep the dirty water into a sluice in the center of the floor.

He didn't know how long it took to bathe Decepshun, only that he was exhausted by the time he was finished. He sat down and leaned against her again, breathing hard.

"How long until the Dragon Loser gets back here?" he asked.

"So much for gratitude," Penn said, not really expecting a reply. "I don't know. It's a long way through the wastelands and then the flower has to be processed..."

Moordryd frowned. "But he'll make it back in time, right?"

Penn hesitated. "I don't know. Decepshun got a large dose. If she wasn't a black dragon, she'd be dead already. As it is...I'm afraid she may only have a few hours left."

"What?" Moordryd shook his head in denial. "No! Her energy levels--"

"Draconian blight doesn't just attack a dragon's body," Penn explained. "It also attacks their energy levels. Scraping that poison off of her may have bought her a little more time, but it's in her blood now. Unless she gets another power surge, and I mean a surge from within, I don't think Dragon Booster will make it in time for her."

Moordryd curled up against Decepshun's neck and stroked her head. She didn't even move, using her remaining energy solely to breathe. He closed his eyes and refused to believe it. What did Penn know? Dragon Booster always screwed up his plans, his father's plans, Armegaddon's plans. Surely he'd be able to screw up one more.

As the sun slowly sank towards the horizon and the air turned colder, however, he started to think that Artha really wouldn't make it in time. Decepshun was still breathing, but slower and with a lot more effort. Her whole body heaved as she panted. He stood up and turned the lights on, then stood at the door and stared outside for a moment.

The other stable brats were clustered in a corner talking to Penn, shooting worried glances at him every few seconds. A sliver of sun remained above the horizon and the city lights were coming on. He wondered if his father was worried or if Armegaddon was laughing. And why hadn't Cain come looking for him? Maybe Cain just thought this was the last place to find him.

A sudden barking cough made him run back inside. He fell to his knees beside her, calling her name as he tried to hold her as she spasmed, but he knew he couldn't help her. She dragged in every breath, simply too weak to continue to fight. Her frightened eyes met his. This was no way for a dragon to die.

And he wouldn't let her go this way. He still had one option left. He would give her the inner surge of energy she needed, no matter what the cost. Although he heard everyone else's footsteps, drawn by Decepshun's suffering, he raised his amulet and slid it into his gauntlet as he released the shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

Dark energy coursed over and through his body, coalescing into his armor and full face mask. When the shadows finally released him, he knelt next to Decepshun and smiled to see her transformed as well as breathing easier. She even lifted her head and grinned back at him. Even though her breathing remained labored, he could tell that, if need be, she would make it through the night.

"Shadow Booster!"

He turned in time to catch Penn's jack stick across his chest, sending him sprawling on the floor. The blow knocked the wind out of him and he fought to catch his breath again.

Penn frowned when he heard his rasping breath and looked at Decepshun, whose highlighted markings and ridges could not disguise the fact that she was the same black psi-class dragon, and suddenly Shadow Booster's real identity was no longer difficult to guess.

"Moordryd Paynn," Penn said, tightening his grip on his stick as he loomed over him. "I should have known."

Moordryd narrowed his eyes. "Don't beat yourself up. You're just as dumb as your stable brat!" He turned on his side and lashed out, kicking Penn's legs out from under him. "Didn't anyone teach you never get too close?"

Retrieving his jack stick from Decepshun's saddle, he extended it and blocked Penn's next attack, startled by how fast the older man could move. At least his armor gave him extra power, enough that his own swing sent Penn flying from the stable, and he used the few spare seconds to grab his flash stick and a couple of disrupter mines. As he followed after Penn, he paused long enough to put a hand on Decepshun's neck to calm her.

"Stay here," he said. "Conserve your energy. I'll handle them."

Although she gave a worried whuff, she lay her head down again and watched him walk out. She couldn't even offer the simplest mag moves to him right now. He would be on foot while nearly everyone else had their dragons.

Once outside, Moordryd tapped the locks on the side of the wall and closed the stable off, protecting Decepshun from any stray fire. Penn was back on his feet and the other three, Kitt, Parmon and Lance, were already on their dragons, warned by his sudden cry before.

"Lose your dragon?" Kitt taunted, but her tight grip on Wyldfyre's saddle belied her nervousness.

"How'd Shadow Booster get inside without us seeing him?" Lance asked, nervously edging his dragon Fracshun back a few steps. Even without his dragon, Moordryd's armor and natural stance made him look more formidable.

"Because he's Moordryd Paynn," Penn said. "Be careful. He'll be even more dangerous with his back against a wall."

"Without his dragon, however," Parmon started, fingers tapping across his hand-held computer, "I calculate that he's down to less than half his usual power output, deprived of all mag moves and down to at least seventy-three percent strength--"

"Oh, knock it off, egghead," Moordryd sighed. "No one's listening to you."

Parmon frowned as if offended and opened his mouth to argue, but Moordryd spoke before he could, pointing his stick at Penn.

"You think I've got my back against the wall?" Moordryd laughed and knelt, preparing to leap. "You got it all wrong. You're the ones trapped inside with me!"

Despite lacking a dragon, he still leaped over the row of dragons in front of him and landed behind them, giving him enough time to smack Kitt's red thruster gear and send her and Wyldfyre rocketing into the wall. While Parmon maneuvered Cyrano's heavy bulk around to face him, Moordryd leaped up beside him and activated his own thruster gear, jamming it down hard so it wouldn't come up again. As expected, Parmon shrieked in panic and tried to force it back, finally activating his ramming gear to protect Cyrano as they neared the far wall.

Meanwhile Moordryd landed where he'd started and faced Lance, the younger Penn brat. Although he heard Lance's father yelling at the boy and running to protect him, he briefly considered the rider who was little more than a child.

"Moordryd?" Lance asked. "Is that really you in there?"

Ever since he'd carried the boy back home from his father's trap weeks ago, Moordryd found himself loathe to even speak harshly to the brat. But since he couldn't have the boy interfering in this fight, especially since Lance often showed a resourcefulness that belied his age, Moordryd simply used his flash stick to momentarily blind him and his dragon.

The next moment, he had to block Penn's attack. The ferocity and rapid strikes from the older man drove him back several steps. Hard pressed to block each one, Moordryd winced every time one slipped through and slammed against his arm or side. Worse, he felt the poison still flowing in his veins, sapping away what strength he had. When he fell to one knee, holding his jack stick overhead to block Penn's strike, he realized he couldn't keep fighting so straightforwardly.

"It's over, Moordryd," Penn said, pushing harder to force him to bend backwards. "It ends here!"

"Only for you!" Moordryd allowed himself to fall and landed hard on the ground, but the new position let him double-kick straight into Penn's stomach, sending him reeling back. Breathing hard, Moordryd snapped back to his feet and planted his flash stick into the ground. Setting it to flash a short intervals, he stood beside it with his finger on the button, ready to activate it as soon as someone charged.

Kitt, finally shaking her head clear from the hit against the wall, snarled and steered Wyldfyre straight at him. Moordryd activated the flash stick and looked away as it flashed bright enough to light the entire arena for a brief second. He heard Kitt scream and pull her dragon to a stop, and he ran forward though slightly to one side, using the techniques he'd learned stealing dragons to keep her off balance.

She saw him for a brief moment as if he was a still picture before the next flash went off, and just before it flashed again she saw him coming closer, this time from the other side of her dragon. By the next flash, he was frozen mid-air in front of her, jack stick held ready to strike. In the next moment, she and Wyldfyre went sprawling across the arena.

Moordryd backed up next to his flash stick again, but this time no one charged, knowing all too well what he could do. Even Penn kept his distance, inching his way closer with one hand over his eyes.

A loud crackle of energy flew behind him as Lance magged his flash stick away, sending it flying well out of reach. Moordryd cried out in frustration and palmed his disrupter mine, and Lance aimed another mag burst at him.

"Lance, no!" Penn yelled.

Too late. Moordryd tossed the mine at the same time Fracshun's energy burned towards him, and even though it was blue energy, Moordryd caught it in his armored gloves the way Armegaddon had taught him. The disrupter mine went off, sending smoke and a small concussive blast in front of Lance. Fracshun braced himself for the hit but Lance coughed and slipped off his saddle.

Channeling dragon energy at last, Moordryd gathered it into a burst that he started to aim at Penn. Instead he heard a scream and turned in time to see Kitt running at him, her own jack stick aimed at his head. Acting solely on instinct, he magged her up and over towards a tall pile of crates in the corner of the stable. She yelled as he used up all of his charge, and without the energy pushing her forward, she fell to the side instead, merely clipping the edge of one of the crates.

Moordryd turned to face Penn again, but when he saw the look of horror on the man's face, he looked back at the crates. To his surprise, the crate Kitt had clipped now slipped free and fell behind the stack. That left the rest of the top crates precariously swaying in the breeze and as one they started to topple towards Lance, still coughing and disoriented from the mine's blast.

"Mini-brat!" Moordryd darted forward and wrapped one arm around Lance's waist, pushing him up against the bottom crates as he positioned his jack stick diagonally over them. He hoped it would take the weight of whatever Penn had stored in those boxes and closed his eyes, afraid to watch it all come down on them. Just as he managed to draw his body in as much as he could, he felt something land hard on his leg and he cried out in pain.

By the time Penn reached them, the crates had stopped falling and lay still. Yelling his son's name, he bent and tried to see between the boxes, but there were too many and this part of the arena was too poorly lit.

"Stand back, Mr. Penn," Parmon said as he rode Cyrano in close and started to mag the crates out of the way. Fracshun joined him, followed quickly by Wyldfire with a sore and wincing Kitt, and all three of them worked to unbury the two trapped underneath. Halfway through the pile, they heard voices and paused despite their rush, too curious to know what they were saying.

"--you okay?" Lance asked.

"Of course I'm not okay!"

With his jack stick braced against the boxes and his armor providing some protection, Moordryd lay on his side with Lance safely between him and the few crates that hadn't fallen. He hadn't fared so well, though, with one of the heavy containers pressing impossibly hard on one outstretched leg.

"Scales!" Gotta be sprained, Moordryd thought and glared at Lance. "What the heck were you thinking running around like that? This is all your fault!"

His pity squashed by the thought of getting in trouble, Lance squawked. "'My' fault? You're the one that didn't move fast enough. My father says you've got no one to blame but yourself for not training enough."

"That has nothing to do with it, you ungrateful little brat! I've been poisoned! See if I ever save you again if this is the thanks I get."

"You never say thanks when someone rescues you."

"That's totally beside the point!"

"Is not."

"Is too."

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is not to infinity."

"Is not to infinity plus one."

Lance cried out in protest. "You can't add one to--"

Kitt magged the last few boxes aside and smiled as the two turned, startled. "Am I interrupting something?"

Lance gave her an apologetic smile, but Moordryd only saw the two dragons--no, three including Fracshun--lined up in front of him, all ready to blast him away. And either Kitt hadn't noticed the crate still on top of him or she'd left it there intentionally to keep him trapped.

"Lance," Penn said, coming up close. "Get over here. Hurry."

"I'm kinda stuck here," Lance said. "Besides, he's hurt and if I move--"

"Even hurt," Penn cut him off, "he's still dangerous."

"But..." Parmon reluctantly mentioned, "he did save Lance's life. Those packing crates would have crushed him if Moordryd hadn't blocked them." He winced when he saw the last box still on top of Moordryd's leg. "Ouch."

"Yeah," Kitt snapped, "after he threw me across the stables and knocked 'em over in the first place."

"I was trying to stop him," Moordryd growled, pointing at Penn. "He's like a rabid hydrag with that stick."

Penn narrowed his eyes. "You're a menace to the entire city. I had to stop you--"

"From what? Sitting next to my sick dragon?" Moordryd tried to turn to face him rather than craning to look over his shoulder, but the move put pressure on his ankle and he yelped. Lance gently touched his shoulder in sympathy and suddenly Moordryd felt nothing but tired. He couldn't move and he could barely breathe now. Why bother anymore?

"You threw the first punch this time." He lowered his head and let his jack stick fall from his hands. "Just remember that when you tell the stable brat he went all that way for nothing."

"We're not going to let you die," Penn said, surprised that Moordryd would think that. He sighed and looked away, feeling like he'd lost the fight instead. "You're right. I saw your armor and didn't even think. You transformed to save your dragon, even though you knew we'd probably attack you. Even though you'd have to fight while you were sick."

"I was right before," Lance said softly. "You really do care about your dragon."

Moordryd didn't answer except to look away. Armegaddon, even his father, both taught him that caring made him weak. Helpless in front of the stable brats, it seemed that they had been right after all.

"Wait a minute," Penn said. "You called him stable brat. You only call Artha stable brat. You know he's the Dragon Booster!"

Before Moordryd could answer, heavy dragon footsteps echoed from the other side of the arena as Artha returned. His armor and Beau were covered in dust from riding hard over the wastelands without stopping, and both of them were breathing hard from the run. In one hand he held the container with the flower inside. He stopped in front of them trying to make sense of Moordryd in his armor, Lance right next to him and his father's scowl.

"Um," he wondered. "Did I miss something?"


	4. Chapter 4

As much as Penn obviously wanted to question his son, making the antidote had to come first. He gave Artha a silent look before taking the flower and heading back, taking one last glance at Moordryd before disappearing inside.

"What happened?" Artha noticed the crate pinning Moordryd and magged it off of him. "Why are you in your armor?"

"Wait a second," Kitt said. "You knew he's the Shadow Booster?"

"And you just left him here without telling us?" Parmon asked, eyes wide.

"It's a long story," Artha said as he jumped off Beau. "We found out about each other but promised not to tell anyone else."

"After everything he's done?" Parmon asked, his voice turning shrill. "You do remember how many times he's tried to kill us, right? What about when he nearly buried us under rubble? When he left you to the hydrags? When he turned you into a wraith? When he set half the council against you? When he--"

While Parmon recited his litany of sins, Moordryd set up with a groan. The world spun slowly around him and his whole body ached from his fight with Penn. Even on a dragon, he didn't want to fight Artha's father again. Favoring his hurt leg, he pushed himself back to his feet, leaning against the crates so he wouldn't fall. He felt a slight tug on his armor and glanced down.

"Are you really poisoned?" Lance asked, his eyes wide.

"Wouldn't be here if I wasn't," Moordryd murmured. "Do me a favor, mini-brat, hand me my jack stick."

"You're not gonna hit me with it, right?" Lance said, bending to pick it up anyway. "'Cause you sounded pretty angry a minute ago."

Moordryd considered mentioning that he didn't need it to hit him, but he just shook his head. Leaning on the stick like a crutch, he started to push himself away from the crates but stopped with a hiss of pain as his body trembled and refused to move. He fell back against the crates and the stick fell out of his hand again.

"Don't try to walk," Artha said, immediately moving to his side. Helping the Shadow Booster instead of fighting him felt a little strange, but he swung Moordryd's arm over his shoulders and put an arm around his waist, taking his weight.

"Don't think I can," Moordryd whispered. "How long'll the antidote take?"

"I don't know," Artha said. "Probably not long. The one we made for your father only took a couple hours."

By the time they reached the stables, Moordryd was relying solely on Artha's strength and dragging his injured leg. With a groan, he sank down against Decepshun's side and lay his head on her shoulder, trying to smile when she turned and looked at him.

"I'll be okay, girl," he said, stroking her nose. "Just a little longer. The bad man with the stick is making the antidote."

"'Bad man with the stick'?" Artha echoed, sitting in front of him. His armor clacked softly as he crossed his legs and leaned forward, but he didn't think to power down.

Even though Parm had the Power Booster's gauntlet, he didn't have the amulet to activate it. Despite being adversaries most of the time, Moordryd was the only other person who knew what being a Booster was like. Talking through their masks seemed to make their personal rivalry diminish, and while their relationship through combat wasn't pretty either, at least they understood each other better in that regard.

"I don't think I want to face your father again," Moordryd said. "You never mentioned he was a fighter."

"I'm sorry," Artha said, his voice turning miserable. "I should've warned him--"

Moordryd rolled his eyes, an interesting effect through his mask. "We agreed not to tell anyone. And I wouldn't trust them not to tip off security."

"We should let them know you're okay, though," Artha said. "Security, I mean. They're out looking for you. I think your father's driving them to find you."

"He doesn't know I'm here?" The moment he asked, he realized how stupid the question was.

Artha shook his head. "He's got wraith dragons tearing up the down city crews looking for you, and your Dragon Eyes are combing the city."

Moordryd half-smiled. "Good to be missed." And with the way his relationship with his father had strained over the past few days, at least his father cared to look.

A shuffling sound at the door drew their attention, but they didn't see anyone. After a moment, Moordryd sighed and closed his eyes. Probably just a newt. Lying on the floor never felt so comfortable as when he could barely move. He didn't think he'd mind sleeping in a dragon stable tonight.

"I'm glad you kept your side of the promise and didn't tell anyone I'm the Dragon Booster," Artha said. "Or we'd be crawling with Word's dragons."

"Wraiths are easy to control," Moordryd said, waving his concern away. "Though it's a little harder without my remote."

"So you can control them," Artha said softly, not sounding surprised but merely hearing it confirmed. "Did you set that one loose in the magball match?"

"No, that was my father. He didn't think I could win on my own." He clenched his hand into a fist, still frustrated by the memory. "Neither did Armeggadon..."

"Well, you do cheat a lot," Artha said, smiling despite himself. "Have you ever raced without cheating?"

Moordryd didn't like what he thought Artha was implying. "It's not like that. Cheating's fun--"

"Fun?" Artha scoffed. "You're a menace on the track."

"Yeah, I'm a real Paynn." Moordryd would have laughed but his chest felt tight, as if it was squeezing his breath. Hopefully Penn wouldn't take too long to make the antidote, but Moordryd didn't trust him to stall just a little too long.

"I don't get it," Artha said. "Why would you be proud of cheating, especially when you don't need to?"

The note of respect sounded strange to Moordyrd's ears. How odd that his rival would be the only one to express any real confidence in him. Despite the chills spreading through his body, Moordryd smiled and a feral gleam filled his eyes.

"It isn't just about winning. The other crews all hate me. It's a rush to be able to knock them out of a race under the ref's nose, even with all those screens trained on us."

"If they hate you, then how come you got half of them to turn on me?"

He shrugged. "Politics, stable brat. You appeal to their nobility, I appeal to their ambition--"

He paused as someone shuffled by the door again. Definitely not a newt. Beside him, Decepshun bared her teeth, ready to fight. Weakened as he was, his first thought was to wonder if she could defend them both, but he didn't want to think about the strain that would put on her energy levels.

"You know, we can hear you out there," Artha said calmly.

From around the door, Lance and Beau peeked inside, both grinning sheepishly that they'd been caught.

"Sorry, Artha," Lance said. "We just wanted to know what you two were doing."

"We're just talking--" Artha started, about to send Lance back inside.

"He can come in if he wants," Moordryd cut in.

The look Artha gave him said he knew Moordryd was up to something, but he didn't argue. Paynn had never hurt Lance, who seemed to like him for some reason. He waved both his dragon and his brother in, and Lance zipped over to his side.

As Beau came in, Decepshun growled to warn the larger dragon to keep his distance. Moordryd put his hand on her paw to calm her. He couldn't risk her starting a fight.

"You give your dragon permission?" he asked, glancing once at Beau.

"Huh?" Artha exchanged a look with Beau. "Not really. It's his stable. I guess he just figured it was a private conversation, huh boy?"

Beau nodded with a whuff and lay down on the far side of the room, careful to keep the end of his tail well away from Decepshun's jaws.

"Oh, I get it," Lance said. "It confused him 'cause Moordryd thinks dragons should rule."

Artha's mouth set in a frown that reminded Moordryd of Penn. "What? You mean you really believe that? Moodryd, even your own father doesn't believe that. He wants dragons to rule, but with him ruling the dragons."

Moordryd half-smiled. "Even father doesn't have that much control gear. He'd have to convince them to listen."

Behind him, Decepshun barked a laugh.

"Wait," Artha said slowly. "You mean you really think dragons are better than you?"

"Stronger, faster, smarter sometimes--" he started coughing again, pressing his hands against his mouth as if he could suppress them that way.

"We shouldn't be making you talk," Artha realized. "Sorry. This can wait. Can you at least take off the helmet--um, mask?"

"Won't risk it," Moordryd said when the coughing subsided. "The transformation's all that's keeping Decepshun alive. If I take it off, the armor might fade."

Artha nodded. They knew so little about their armor that even his father didn't understand some of its ancient technology. It was entirely possible that the armor was all that was keeping Moordryd alive, too.

"Lance," he said, "go ask dad how long it'll be, okay?"

"Okay." Nodding once, Lance shot to his feet and ran off, disappearing into the darkness.

As he left, a cold breeze blew in the stable, making them all shiver. Artha stood up and pushed the button that closed the stable door, protecting them from the elements. Yawning as he came back, he sat down next to Beau and leaned against his side.

"I don't need a babysitter," Moordryd said, but there wasn't any heat to his voice. "You don't have to stay up with me."

"You shouldn't be alone right now," Artha said. "Though I think I'll take off the armor. It's not really comfortable."

Moordryd closed his eyes at the soft flash of light. When he opened then again, Artha lay in his usual racing gear with Beau back in his red and blue colors. This close, he couldn't help but see that Beau's shape was identical in both forms. The only change came in his coloring. Moordryd groaned.

"Can't believe I never noticed," he muttered. "How does no one notice? At least Decepshun's shape changes a little..."

The only answer was Beau's self-satisfied chuckle.


	5. Chapter 5

Decepshun's deep breaths made her sides heave. Her scales rippled beneath Moordryd and he turned his head, slowly coming out of dreams of the bright sun gleaming over the city's haze, opening his eyes to the familiar twilight of the lower city. Little sunlight made it down here, but even the faint glare made him wince. His entire body hurt.

"--up. Wake up. The antidote's ready."

Moordryd blinked. Why did the world look like shadows and light? Oh, he was still wearing his helmet.

"You've got to get rid of the armor," someone said. "Come on, you gotta breathe this in."

Yesyes, something about an antidote. He remembered the explosion of smoke, the choking black oil in his lungs and in his blood. But after that? Where was he? Not the Dragon Eye crew's lair. It didn't smell like empty liquor bottles or the burnt ozone of neon lights.

"Moordryd, can you hear me? Can you take off the helmet?"

The stable brat's voice, he finally recognized, and he shook his head once.

"Decepshun--" he rasped, his words ending in a cough.

"She's fine," Artha urged him. "She already taken the antidote. She's breathing okay now."

He felt her familiar movement beneath him, gently raising him with each breath, but he hesitated. She had been worse off when he fell asleep. He couldn't risk leaving her vulnerable again, and he reached his hand towards her head. Only when she pressed her snout against his palm with a reassuring whuff did he reach across himself for his gauntlet. He scratched at the amulet until it slid out and clanked on the floor.

The shadow armor vanished and he gasped as its power left him. Artha's hand cupped the back of his head and tilted him forward over a small bowl. Instead of drinking, Moordryd breathed deep as cool vapors rose up around his face and into his mouth, sliding down his throat and scrubbing poison from his lungs.

A bitter, gritty residue in his throat made him cough again, and the more smoke he breathed in, the worse his throat felt. With a choked groan, he turned over on his hands and knees and coughed out handfuls of wet, black clumps on the floor. Artha wrapped around him and held him tight as the coughs turned more violent, wracking Moordryd as he shut his eyes. Each cough felt like it might bring up his lungs.

Unfortunately, the pain couldn't distract him from the fact that his rival was holding him so he didn't collapse. Artha even kept his white hair from falling in his face. Moordryd's wounded pride stung to the core. In for a scale, in for a whole dragon, however, and he didn't try to tug away or squirm out of Artha's reach. The stable brat got to play hero and Moordryd had someone to hold him steady.

"Some antidote," he muttered when he could speak, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He sat up on his knees, his head tilted as he caught his breath. "Worse'n the poison."

"The poison had a long time to work. That's why it hurts so bad." Artha frowned. "You both came really close there."

Decepshun. He'd almost forgotten about her. He let his gaze move across the floor and, in his blurred peripheral vision, saw her stretched out on the floor with her own bowl of smoke near her jaws. After returning his look, she raised her tail and nudged him hard enough to topple him back against her side.

"Whoa!" Artha had to move fast to catch Moordryd before he slid to the floor. "What'd she do that for?"

"Guess she..." Moordryd mumbled "...wants me to rest."

"Well, she could be a little more gentle about it," Artha said.

Artha glared at the black dragon, but she gave a small toss of her head and ignored him. Her sick rider was nestled against her side. That was all she cared about.

"A couple minutes, maybe," Moordryd said as if Artha hadn't spoken. "But that's it."

Artha blinked. "What?"

"Rest a few minutes," Moordryd said, "but then...we go home."

Decepshun turned and looked at him in obvious confusion. She snorted and shook her head once.

"No choice," Moordryd argued. "My father's looking. We can't stay..."

Artha shook his head. "There's no way you can take off yet. I don't think you can even get on your dragon, much less ride her."

"But..."

"Moordryd, think."

Annoyed, Moordryd turned his head, but Artha sat down in front of him and refused to move.

"Someone's out to get you," Artha started. "There haven't been any more attacks since the one on the track--since you disappeared. If you're seen again, you'll just be a walking target for whoever tried to kill you."

"That's what you say," Moordryd mumbled.

Artha sighed explosively. "Why are you always so stubborn? Would it be that bad to stay here?" When Moordryd didn't answer, Artha leaned closer until he could catch the scent of asphalt and dragon hide from Payne's jacket. "At least until you're both better? You'll be safe, no one will find you."

Moordryd glared sideways at him. A handful of arguments came to mind, that he could hide out in his own lair, that his father could protect him, that he'd taken care of himself ever since he came to lead the Dragon Eyes. But he knew he'd be lucky to make it home in one piece.

And yet staying at Penn Stables didn't feel safe--he sighed. No, not unsafe. Uncomfortable. No one had ever offered to protect him before.

"I guess we could stay a little longer," Moordryd conceded. "But just 'cause you asked. We don't need help."

"Of course," Artha said, his wry grin meaning he didn't believe it. "Why don't you go ahead and get some sleep? And then later on, if you're hungry, lunch'll be waiting."

When Artha finally left, Moordryd groaned and kicked the floor. "Annoying Penn brat..."

Decepshun's side heaved as she whuffed in laughter, and he shot her a glare, even though he knew what she found so amusing. Yes, the annoying Penn brat who saved their lives, found their antidote and now gave them a place to stay, rest and eat for awhile. And even gave his dragon a spare berth in their stables. Dragons weren't cheap to take care of, especially when it came to feeding them.

"All right," he said. "We'll stay 'till we're better. But that doesn't mean we're friends or anything with them, got it?"

As usual, she acted like she hadn't heard him. She only looked back at him again when she felt him crawling off of her and towards the far wall where he'd dropped her saddle. She grumbled deep in her throat and flicked her tail meaningfully. She didn't want to knock him over with her tail or drag him back, but she didn't want him exerting himself, either.

"I need to call Cain," Moordryd snapped. "And my wrist comm's the rest of my gear."

He sat down with his back against the wall and didn't bother looking through his gear for his wrist communicator. Instead he hauled the saddle and view screen onto his lap, taking a moment to catch his breath before he dialed in the code to reach his friend. His hand shook slightly as he finished, and he let it fall to the floor, closing his eyes as he waited.

To his surprise, Cain answered immediately, his words spilling out in a rush.

"Moordryd! Where've you been?" Cain frowned and his eyes widened as he stared at him. "Are you okay? What happened? You look like someone scraped all your scales off."

"Feels like it, too," Moordryd said. He tilted his head, feeling a stab in his side as his lungs began to ache. Stable brat was right, he thought. He might've been healed, but he certainly wasn't recovered yet.

"Moordryd, where are you? Last thing we saw was the Dragon Booster carrying you and Decepshun away."

"Kind of a long story," Moordryd said. "Listen, how's my father reacting?"

Cain barked a laugh. "Oh, let's see, he's got your whole crew searching the lower levels, his spies and dragonflies are scouring the top level, there's so many wraith dragons running around you can't go down a street without crashing into one--how do you think he's reacting?"

His friend's familiar sarcasm made him smile. "Nice to be missed. Look, I don't want to say it over the vid. Can you get away without anyone following you?"

"Sure," Cain nodded, "but it'd be nice to know where I'm going."

Moordryd hesitated. He had no doubt that his father was monitoring as many video feeds and links as he could. Perhaps he couldn't watch all of his crew at once, but he couldn't take the risk that Word would find out where he was and send wraiths and the Dragon Eyes as a horde on Penn Stables. Not only would there be a fight, but there was a chance Armegaddon would follow them here, too.

"The place," he said slowly, "the place is where I couldn't steal a dragon."

"'Couldn't steal'?" Cain echoed. "But Moordryd, there's lots of places we had to run from security."

"Not us," Moordryd clarified. "Me. Alone."

Cain frowned in thought. "But you never admit when you screw up--oh! Oh, I remember, that's--" He gaped at him, shaking his head once. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me. They hate you."

"So does most of the city," Moordryd said. "Just get down here. Moordryd out."

Not waiting to hear Cain's reply, he cut off the communication link and pushed the saddle off his lap, wincing as his side ached harder now that the weight was off. He pressed his hand against his ribs. It was the same pain that came from running too long, and it only made breathing harder.

"Thanks for not telling him over the vid."

Moordryd tensed up. Artha's father stood at the door, staff in hand. He only relaxed when Connor didn't come any closer. Stupid to let the older man see him rattled, but his voice brought back the panic he'd felt during the fight.

"You're not angry?" Moordryd asked, glancing sideways at him. His jack stick, where was his jack stick? He spotted it against Decepshun's side, out of reach. Great.

"No, I'm not angry," Connor said. He noticed Moordryd eyeing his staff and set it against the wall. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I just want to prepared in case Word's wraiths come here."

Silence. Moordryd could have mentioned that his father didn't have nearly enough wraiths to cover all of Dragon City. They'd probably followed Artha out of the city into the wastelands and were still trying to find their way back home. He figured he had a couple more days before Word sent a few dragons to Penn Stables.

Instead Moordyd kept quiet. Artha's foolish notions about working together aside, they were still enemies. Humans had proved they couldn't live as equals with dragons. Some day they would find themselves on opposite sides of the battlefield again.

"Will Cain really come alone?" Connor asked. There was a warning note in his voice. He was willing to bend on this, but only so much. That didn't bode well for Moordryd's friends. If there was another fight, Cain wouldn't stand a chance.

"Well, he might bring Rancydd and Blarre," Moordryd admitted, "but they won't fight unless I tell them to."

"Rancydd and Blarre," Connor echoed. "I don't know the crews like I used to. They're trustworthy?"

Moordryd grumbled to himself. Sure, they were trustworthy, but only to Cain. His friend's brief mutiny still stung, and he remembered how his Dragon Eyes had turned against him. It was a lesson that had helped mold him into a real leader of his crew, but he felt acutely the way authority separated him from his friends. Artha didn't seem to suffer that loneliness. Moordryd glanced at Connor. Probably because Artha's father took that burden on himself.

"Trustworthy enough," he finally answered. "I'll be taking those three with me to the academy."

Connor nodded once as if that told him everything. It probably did. Academy racers only took their best crewmates along, people they would trust their lives to.

Picking up on her rider's anxiety, Decepshun rumbled and readjusted how she lay, trying to get comfortable. She hadn't moved her snout from the antidote, breathing deep the cool smoke even though she didn't seem to need it anymore. Her side, softly rising and falling, looked much more comfortable than the wall, but Moordryd wasn't going to crawl in front of Connor.

To Moordryd's surprise, Connor walked over and offered his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Moordryd reached up and grasped it. When Connor pulled him to his feet, he swayed and stumbled. The room tilted as Connor walked him slowly back to Decepshun's side.

Forcing himself to stand straight, Moordryd couldn't help but bend slightly to his right, easing the pain in his side. He knew it would disappear in time. His leg would take longer. The armor had protected him from a broken bone, but it hurt to use. Hopefully tomorrow he wouldn't feel like he'd fallen off his dragon in the middle of a race.

"Lance told me about how you feel," Connor tried again. "About dragons ruling humans."

"Let me guess," Moordryd said, "this is where I get the lecture about being equals and releasing the dragon."

"Word taught you about releasing the dragon?" Connor asked, startled.

"No, minibrat told me back when I...um..." Moordryd let his voice trail off. Talking about his past with Artha would be difficult if it always involved one of his father's schemes.

"When you rescued Artha from the wraith gear that you put on him," Connor finished for him. He helped him back down comfortably against Decepshun and stayed on one knee, talking to Moordryd at eye level rather than standing.

"You know about that?" Moordryd asked.

"Artha hasn't told anyone but me what you did for him," Connor said. "Why did you go back? Your father almost had the city. Isn't that what you wanted?"

A question Moordryd had asked himself dozens of times. He wanted dragons to rule, he wanted them out from under the control of greedy humans, so why had he risked his life to stop his father's perfect plan? He often told himself it had been panic at being alone in a city that felt dead, but that day had made him start thinking about when the dragon/human war would finally begin in earnest. The dragons were ready to rise up, the humans were ignorant and drunk on their own power. Now was the perfect time for the spark, his father's spark, that would ignite the war.

Maybe Moordryd was a coward, but the thought of war sickened him. When he thought about what would happen, the bloodshed, the loss of life, the pain that would have to come before the dragons' rule, his imagination grew horribly vivid and he lost his nerve. He didn't want to see dead dragons on the street, their jaws covered in blood. He didn't want to see humans cut to pieces. He didn't want to see his friends dead or hurt.

Connor didn't demand an answer. Moordryd was sure the older man saw it in his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Cain arrived, night had fallen and Moordryd had slept for a few hours, leaving him feeling a little more like himself. His leg felt like it was one big bruise, and he still couldn't take a deep breath without that ache in his side, but he didn't feel like he was about to fall over anymore, either.

Not long after sunset, he heard Coershun and Cain enter the arena, the dragon's paws scuffing the sand on the floor. Moordryd wondered what Cain was thinking and imagined him warily scanning for the Dragon Booster, the Penn crew or perhaps Word's wraith dragons. A moment later, he heard Connor speaking.

"Cain, did you bring anyone else with you?"

"I'm alone," Cain answered as if he'd expected the question. "But Rancydd knows where I am. If I don't respond in an hour, he'll have the whole Dragon Eye crew down here--"

"We don't want a fight," Connor said, interrupting him. "We'll defend ourselves if we have to, but we won't start anything."

Silence. This truce was uneasy at best. The smallest mishap could end it in a second.

"...where is he?" Cain asked.

Moordryd smiled. Cain must have been nervous if he wasn't making sarcastic cracks. He didn't blame him. Connor was dangerous and worth keeping an eye on. At least Cain had always been good at sizing up competition. Unlike Moordryd, he didn't need to fight the old man to know he was strong.

Cain's heavy boots hitting the sand were unmistakable. Leaving Coershun near the arena entrance, Cain walked towards the stables. Moordryd would never admit it, but the move impressed him. His friend was walking on foot through what he knew to be hostile territoriy. No doubt Coershun would run at the first sign of trouble to alert Rancydd, but that left Cain alone until she returned.

"Moordryd?" Cain called out. "You in there?"

"I'm here," Moordryd answered. "Quit acting so nervous. It's okay."

Finally his friend came into view. As soon as he saw him, Cain broke into a grin and ran closer, kneeling beside him. His clothes were covered in dust and dark circles lined his eyes, betraying how long he'd been riding.

"Could'a called me sooner," Cain said, glancing over him for injuries. "I was afraid I was gonna have to tell your father I couldn't find you."

"You won't have to," Moordryd assured him, "but only because you're going to deliver this instead."

He raised his hand, holding out a record chip. Cain took it, giving it a look before tucking it into his belt.

"Okay, but what's on it?"

"Just a message to let him know I'm alive but that I can't go home yet."

Cain frowned. "I don't know... The last time I saw your father, he looked pretty scary. He's gonna wanna to know where you are."

"That's why you have to get it to him without him knowing it came from you. And you can't just leave it in his voice mail, either. He'd trace the call." Moordryd looked over Decepshun's head to see if they were being watched. He didn't want their conversation eavesdropped on. If the Penn brats were outside, he couldn't see them.

"That won't be easy," Cain argued. "He doesn't leave the citadel. He's been flipping back and forth between all his different video feeds. I don't think he's even stopped to rest."

For a moment, Morodryd didn't speak. Usually his father barely noticed him, and the few times he actually summoned him to the citdadel or met him on the track, Word merely wanted him to run an errand or play a part in one of his schemes. He was just another tool to his father, a pawn in his plans for war--but pawns were meant to be used and sacrificed. His father wouldn't search endlessly for someone he didn't care about.

"Then..." Moordryd shook his head. He could think about his father later. "Stick it on a wraith dragon's command gear and hit play. It'll transmit it right to him."

"Just one problem," Cain said, and a note of annoyance crept into his voice. "I can't see those stupid wraiths. I meant it when I said we're crashing into them. Blarre hit pavement twice in one alley. It's so bad Coershun wouldn't run here. Walked the whole way."

That bad? His father must have sent out every single dragon. Moordryd pointed at the corner of the stable.

"Check my gear. You should find the remote in the saddle."

Cain went over and hauled the saddle upright, checking the side bag and pulling out the familiar device.

"Okay, I'll get this message to your father," Cain said, looking back at him. "You coming back home? Word would probably notice you on the street, but you could make it if you went as the Shadow Booster."

Moordryd shook his head. "No way. It's too dangerous, for me and for the whole crew."

"'Dangerous'?" Cain echoed. "Even for the Shadow Booster?"

"Especially for him. You remember when I got the gauntlet, that thing that was trying to kill us all the way up the tower?"

"Yeah, no matter how much I try to forget."

"That was..." Moordryd sighed. "That's Armeggadon. He's an ancient warrior from the dragon human war. He's the one who set the trap to poison me. Probably used one of his dragons to do it..."

"Armeggadon," Cain said softly, then snapped his fingers in recognition. "Wait, I've heard that before. I heard you say that to your amulet thing, back at my party."

"Yeah..." Moordryd watched him come back and sit down next to him, clearly interested in hearing the whole story. Moordryd knew he was in no position to argue. He certainly wasn't going anywhere for awhile, and Cain was already doing so much for him.

"I didn't know who he was at first," he began. "He was just a voice in the amulet. He taught me all the mag techniques and trained me, but then he started ordering me around, tried to get me to sacrifice my friends..."

"You mean me," Cain said, tilting his head. "At the fire track in the volcano."

"...yes." Moordryd didn't like remembering that. He'd used Cain to slow down Artha and gain a few seconds, and nearly lost him as a result. "I started disobeying him, but it was only when I fought him with the Dragon Booster that I thought he was gone. Guess blasting him over a cliff wasn't enough."

"Wait a minute," Cain said. "I thought we were enemies with the Dragon Booster."

"We are," Moordryd said, but the words came out too forcefully. Cain furrowed his brow, but Moordryd continued before his friend could say anything. "We're still enemies in the coming war. Armeggadon is just a problem for both of us."

He didn't bother mentioning the two other warriors they'd fought alongside. Although their powerful dragons dwarfed Decepshun and Beau, and their armor was obviously designed much like the Booster armor, he knew next to nothing about them. He wouldn't bring them up until he knew something solid.

"And you think this Armeggadon guy is looking for you?" Cain asked.

"Probably," Moordryd said. "That poison was supposed to kill me and Decepshun right there on the track. When Dragon Booster sav--got us out of there, Armeggadon lost track of us. I'm sure he wants the gauntlet so he can pick a new Shadow Booster, one who'll do as he says."

Taking a deep breath, Cain sat back and digested everything he'd been told. He'd thought before that the attack was one of the other crews taking revenge on Moordryd, or even one of Word's enemies. Not a powerful warrior intent on his best friend's death, someone who wouldn't care about hurting anyone around Moordryd.

"Okay, yeah, maybe you shouldn't come back just yet," Cain said, laughing weakly.

"I'm only waiting until I'm strong enough to fight again," Moordryd said. "Just a couple days. I don't think the stable brat wants me here anymore than I want to be here."

"True. And hey, why _are_ you here?" Cain looked over his shoulder, spotting Artha and Lance cleaning out supplies on the far side of the arena. Connor stoood beside them, but he was watching Cain and Coershun both. "The Dragon Booster carried you two off. Why bring you to the stable brat?"

A twinge of guilt gnawed at Moordryd. Even though Artha hadn't broken their promise, the Penn crew knew he was the Shadow Booster. He glanced at Cain and saw his narrowing eyes that meant his friend knew he was hiding something.

Friend. Cain had kept his secret all this time. He had no one else to trust if not him.

"I promised not to tell," Moordryd said softly, "but think about it, Cain. I protect the Dragon Eyes as the Shadow Booster. The Dragon Booster always shows up at Penn Stables. Always. Why do you think that is?"

To Cain's credit, it didn't long once put in those terms. Moordryd almost laughed. He could almost see the gears turning in his friend's head, and the light when he realized. Cain's eyes widened as his jaw dropped, and he leaned back to get a good look at Artha again.

"Oh man, how stupid am I? The dragon doesn't even change shape."

"Yup," Moordryd sighed. "I'll never forgive myself for not stealing him when I had the chance."

"That explains how stablebrat suddenly got better at racing," Cain said.

There wasn't much to say after that. Cain left, scanning the arena again as Coershun magged him back into his saddle. As his dragon slowly walked toward the entrance, sniffing for the scent of hidden wraiths underfoot, Cain called him to a halt in front of Connor. The older man held his staff lightly, and Cain didn't think that having Coershun on his side would be much help if there really was a fight.

"You really saved Moordryd's life?" he asked.

Connor nodded. "He needed an antidote. We got it to him just in time."

Cain considered that, touching the recorder chip in his belt. "We'll keep Word's wraith dragons from coming here. And if we see anything that looks like Armeggadon coming your way, we'll contact you."

Surprised, Connor nodded silently. He doubted the Dragon Eyes would see the warrior before his own sensors picked anything up, but the offer was completely unexpected. Even more surprising was that Cain knew about Armeggadon. That meant that Cain had to know the Shadow Booster's real identity, which brought up another question.

"You know about the Shadow Booster, then," Conner said. "What else do you know?"

Cain glanced at Artha, who met his look but didn't speak. "Moordryd's my best friend. We don't keep secrets from each other anymore. But he's my _only_ best friend."

The answer told Conner everything he needed to know. Without a word, he let Coershun walk by, watching them disappear down the street. As soon as they were gone, he let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Wait," Lance said. "Does that mean Cain knows about Artha? But Moordryd promised not to say anything."

"Yeah," Artha said ruefully, "but I guess it's fair that his friend knows about me, the same way all my friends know about him."

"Can he be trusted?" Conner said, even though he guessed the answer was yes.

"No one in the Dragon Eyes crew knows Moordryd's the Shadow Booster except Cain," Artha said. "I don't think he'll say anything. If anything else, it'd risk exposing Moordryd."

"I don't think that's the only reason he won't tell," Conner said. "He walked in here knowing that we might attack him when he was alone. He even went in without his dragon. That's a level of loyalty you don't see too often."

Lance looked at his father in disbelief. "Loyal? Cain led a mutiny against him."

"Yeah, the mutiny got so bad that Moordryd attacked all of his crew as the Shadow Booster," Artha started to argue, but as he considered it, he also thought about something else. "But Cain didn't spill any Dragon Eye secrets, or anything he knew about Moordryd. And Moordryd wasn't really trying to hurt them. He was just scaring them."

Conner knelt so he could face his youngest son eye to eye. "Lance, when you have an argument with one of your friends, you sometimes say things you don't mean and don't speak to them for awhile. Cain's mutiny was the same, only much more intense because of what was at stake."

"What was at stake?" Lance asked.

"For each of them, their only friend."

Back in the stable, Moordryd stretched and crept closer to Decepshun's shoulder, resting against the crook of her arm. Normally he didn't share her stable, preferring a human bed, but he had to admit she was comfortable. He drowsed, slipping in and out of sleep. It was hard to sleep knowing a powerful enemy wanted him dead.

The outside stable light flickered on. Decepshun grumbled and raised her head slightly, blinking as her eyes adjusted, but she wasn't nervous like Moordryd, who rose up on his elbows and reached for his whip, feeling cold tendrils of panic when his hand felt nothing but air.

"Whoa, relax," Artha said when he saw him. "It's just me."

Remembering where he was, Moordryd sighed and let his hand fall. His whip was all the way across the stable with the rest of his gear. He'd need to retrieve it later.

"I brought dinner," Artha said, placing a bowl of what Moordryd hoped was a weird stew. The mystery bits floating in broth didn't look very appetizing. Artha read his look and smiled self-consciously.

"It tastes a lot better than it looks," he promised. "It's just...well, I'm not the best cook, even though I've gotten better since mom--well, it always looks weird but it's okay."

Moordryd didn't comment. He didn't know the stable brat had lost his mother, too, although in retrospect he should have. He simply hadn't cared enough to notice there wasn't an older woman here before. And too busy missing having a mother of his own.

"It's probably not as good as you're used to..." Artha said. His voice trailed off as he stared disheartedly at his own cooking.

"Not really," Moordryd snorted, reaching for the bowl. "If it wasn't for Cain showing us all how to cook, my crew would've been eating dragon feed."

"Cain?" Artha repeated, eyes wide. "He cooks?"

"His mom's a chef at the Opal Dragon. Taught him how to use a kitchen before he started racing." He took a tentative sip of the brother. It wasn't as good as Cain's, true, but it didn't taste like the blackened, burnt sludge it looked like. He took another, deeper, drink. Artha's mystery stew was hot, too, warming him up against the cool night.

"Um...about Cain," Artha said slowly. He left the thought hanging and looked at Moordryd, waiting for him to talk.

"Yeah..." Moordryd mumbled.

So Cain had blabbed. Or let on that he knew. His best friend could be so annoyingly honest sometimes. Cain sometimes said it was because telling the truth meant that he didn't have to keep track of so many lies. Moordryd didn't understand why that was hard, but at least Cain never slipped any really important secrets.

Some more important than others. Cain was the only one in the world who knew why Moordryd never paid attention to the girls on the race circuit.

"About Cain," Moordryd said. He took another drink, stalling for time to collect his thoughts. "I...well, he's my best friend. I don't keep secrets from him anymore. I can't. And besides, your friends know about me now. It's not like Cain'll go telling anyone--"

"I believe you," Artha said, but he didn't have his usual smile or easy look. He stared at Moordryd as if he expected him to bite. "After all, if Cain talks, that would expose you, too."

"That's the last thing I want," Moordryd said, more to himself than Artha. "I'd lose out on the Academy, city security would be after me, my father would probably lock me up in the citadel..."

"He'd lock you up?" Artha echoed.

"More like being grounded," Moordryd said. "Until he was sure I wouldn't do anything against him again."

Artha sat down more comfortably in front of him. "Why do you disobey him sometimes? You led me into that trap to make me a wraith, but then you risked your life to grab the gear off me. You almost killed your father with that bonemark, when you rode Beau."

Good questions. Moordryd wished he had answers for them. He often lay awake in bed wondering how to make his father proud and how to tell his father to go to hell. What would happen if he told Word that he was the Shadow Booster he'd once praised as better than his "good for nothing" son? What would happen if Word knew that the Shadow Booster felt sick to his stomach when he thought about the killing and fighting that happened in war?

Moordryd could fight. He knew he could kill. He'd come close to killing before. So what was it about war that made him so squeamish?

"What do you want, Moordryd?"

He couldn't answer.


	7. Chapter 7

A day passed. Moordryd woke up only to shift and fall asleep again, barely aware of midtown's early morning haze, the glare of midday, and the fade into perpetual neon twilight. Someone nudged him awake long enough to eat again, but he didn't remember anything but their voice, low and mumbled, and their hands pulling the blanket back over him.

When he finally woke up with a clear head, he didn't move at first. His body ached, his chest was sore, and he felt more tired than when he first lay down. But the breath he took was long and deep and didn't catch in his throat.

The antidote had done its job. He sat up, groaning as he pulled strained muscles, and craned his neck to see Decepshun. To his surprise, she was looking back at him.

"You okay, girl?" he asked, patting her flank.

In response, she inhaled so deeply that her side pushed him forward, almost knocking him over. There was no rasp, no rattle in her chest as she breathed out, but as he pet her side, she lay her head down again and curled her tail around until the tip touched her chin.

"You're sore, too, huh?" Moordryd rubbed her snout, drawing a rumble of pleasure. "So am I."

With one last pat, he slowly got to his feet, wincing as his arms and legs throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He picked up his jack stick in the corner and walked into the open space of the stable. The outdoor lamps cast a faint glow around the stables, but the rest of the arena was dark. It seemed late enough that he doubted anyone was awake. After a quick look around, he extended his jack stick and settled into position, arms at his side, legs slightly apart. He took a deep breath, let it out, and then began his first kata.

Sweep out, bring the stick with him and up, following with his arms, moving in a circle that brought the stick back around. He turned with a deliberate step, brought the stick forward, then leaned back. His arms trembled and his legs wobbled so that he checked his balance constantly.

Behind him, Decepshun huffed.

"I know, I know," he said over his shoulder. "But one of us needs to be ready if something happens."

"What did she say?"

Moordryd white-knuckled the jack stick as he froze in surprise. When he could relax again, he glared at Lance, who'd snuck up behind him.

"What are you doing out here?" he snapped. "It's late. Mini-brats should be in bed."

"No one's asleep," Lance said. He held out his own jack stick and mimicked Moordryd's stance. "What kind of kata is that? I've never seen Artha do one like it."

"What do you mean no one's asleep?" Moordryd asked, ignoring his question. "It's late, isn't it?"

"Yeah, almost eleven," Lance nodded. "But everyone's keeping a look out for Armeggadon or your dad, and I'm too excited to sleep."

Excited? Stupid kid. Moordryd rolled his eyes and turned away, raising his stick once more. The sound of Lance's feet scuffling around to his side followed, and when he looked again, Lance was in the same position.

"Look, mini-brat, this isn't a game." Moordryd scowled at him. "I'm not gonna show you how to do these."

"Aww, that's not fair!" Lance said, stomping his foot. "Dad never lets me practice with Artha."

"Because you can get hurt practicing, and I'm not about to tell your dad I taught his kid something dangerous. You wanna do something useful, go scrape your dragon's scales."

Moordryd used his stick to point at Fracshun, who blinked sleepily in his stable and wondered why he was being pointed at. At this angle, the lamp light on his scales showed how cloudy they'd become.

"It's not that bad yet," Moordryd said, "but even from here, you can see they aren't as bright as they should be. If you let grime and dust build up on him, he'll get sick. Or he won't be able to carry you, and you'll weigh him down and you'll both get hurt in a fight."

Giving Lance a rough poke toward the stable with his jack stick, Moordryd forced himself to sound as stern as his father when Word was angry. Being scolded, he knew, carried a lot more force when he felt guilty for disappointing him.

"Your dragon's care comes before your own," Moordryd said. "You're nothing without him."

Hanging his head like a whipped hatchling, Lance still managed to pout.

"You're just saying that 'cause you think dragons are better," he grumbled.

A familiar laugh from the house interrupted Moordryd's reply. When he looked up, he found Artha leaning against the front door, arms crossed as he watched. Realizing he'd given himself away, Artha sighed and walked towards them, giving Lance his own look.

"Doesn't matter why he's saying it," Artha said. "It's still true. Even when I'm dead tired, you know I still give Beau a good scrub and a real scrape when he needs it."

Frowning more, Lance stuck out his tongue and ran back to his dragon's stable, closing the door after him. For all his arguing, there came the sound of water and Fracshun's dismayed groan as he was finally forced to take a bath.

"Thanks," Artha said, glancing at Moordryd. "Me and dad've been trying to get him to pay more attention to Fracshun, but you know kids."

Tempted to say that no, he didn't know kids, especially not little brothers, Moordryd let it slide. He didn't understand laziness, but he understand ignoring good advice when it came from someone he didn't like. Connor Penn had warned him about fighting while angry when he first tried to steal Beau. He was still swallowing that lesson.

"Is it true?" Moordryd asked, changing the subject. "You're keeping watch for Armeggadon?"

"And Word," Artha said. "So far nothing. Oh, Cain came by to say he gave your father your message, but you were asleep at the time. What was the message?"

"Just that I'm all right but I can't go home yet," Moordryd said. He sighed and leaned on his stick, staring at the murky lights above. His father's citadel glimmered in the distance, visible from every level of Dragon City. "I don't think he'll overreact to that. He knows I disappear for days."

"To train?" Artha asked, then frowned when he remembered what else Moordryd liked to do. "Or to steal dragons?"

"Among other things," Moordryd smiled. "I have to replace all the energy whips you keep slicing."

"I wouldn't slice 'em if you didn't use them on me."

Waving the argument aside like an annoying dragonfly, Moordryd brought his stick back up to chest level, about to begin his next kata. The click of another jack stick made him pause. Did Artha want to spar? No, even dumb Artha knew he was in no condition to fight. He glanced sideways at him and tilted his head in mild exasperation.

"Is this a Penn brat thing?" he asked, seeing how Artha was standing. "Caging lessons from strangers?"

"Can't help it," Artha said, not moving. "Lance was kinda right. Dad hasn't taught me this kind of kata, but unless you're taking it slow 'cause you're still healing, it can't be because it's dangerous. What's it for?"

Resigning himself to Artha being at his side, Moordryd didn't hide his irritation as he began his next set. Different from the first, this kata moved just as fluidly but demanded crisp snaps when he wielded the stick.

"Discipline," Moordryd answered as he breathed out. "They force you to breathe..."

He held the stick in a slow thrust, extending his arm fully.

"...to focus on each move..."

He brought the stick back and snapped one end over his shoulder as if attacking someone behind him.

"...so when it comes time, you can fight like second nature."

Artha followed his steps, staying well out of reach. A few seconds behind each move, he copied his swings and ducked once when he thought Moordryd might accidentally hit him. At least he thought it would be accidental. While whirling the stick over his head to gain speed, Moordryd couldn't see behind him, but he knew Artha was there. He didn't think it beyond the other boy to wallop him once.

When they came to a stop, Artha was surprised to find himself breathing a little harder.

"Wow, it didn't seem like a workout," he said. He comforted himself that Moordryd was breathing harder, too, but then he remembered that Moordryd was still recovering. "Wait, I shouldn't be tired, should I?"

"You're not used to it," Moordryd explained.

Twirling his jack stick in his hand, Moordryd hesitated only a moment before coming to a decision. He felt awkward showing this to his enemy, but practicing with the only other dragon booster took a weight off his shoulders. For now, he wasn't alone. Besides, he owed the Penns for saving his life.

He turned so that he faced the same direction as Artha, then held his stick out in his fist, the back of his hand toward the sky.

"Look at the way you hold your jack stick," he said.

Artha did so. His hand was diagonal to it, holding it like he would a wrench. The grip felt natural to him and his father held his own stick the same way, with his fingers slightly angled along the shaft.

"You're not a priest holding a staff," Moordryd said, unknowingly echoing Artha's thought. "You aren't putting your full strength into each hit if you hold it like that. Close your hand around it like you're going to punch me."

Adjusting his grip, Artha found the hold uncomfortable. But when he brought it up for a practice strike, he felt the difference. His wrist was straight, more force traveled down the stick, and he didn't have to adjust his hold for another blow.

"Something so small," Artha said softly. "Who showed you this?"

"My father, back when he still taught me how to fight," Moordryd said, his own voice growing smaller. Years ago, before he had to learn more of the style on his own because Word had grown cruel and suspicious. "But the form has to be perfect, otherwise you could end up with a broken wrist. Fighting the way you do, with your angled hand style, you can absorb a hit easier. It'll slide off your stick."

"Then why risk it?" Artha asked. "Isn't it better to absorb the hit on the stick and pull their defense away from their center? Then you can slam them from the front."

Moordryd shrugged, but inwardly he didn't like admitting the truth, no matter how obvious it was. Artha already knew the answer even if he didn't know it.

"I can't do that as often as you can. You have the dragon of legend backing you up. Decepshun and me, we're built more for speed and stealth." Moordryd shifted to one leg, glancing at his dragon's stable to make sure she was asleep and not hearing him admit her weaknesses. "When I attack, I deflect the strike, then get in close while I'm still moving."

Unable to visualize it, Artha had to hold his stick up, deflect an imaginary attack and then take another step forward. His stick naturally came with him, and he saw that if he'd been in a real fight, he would have been able to slam someone's head or neck. But that meant--

"I can't do that," Artha realized. "Even if I could move fast enough for that to work, that could really hurt someone."

"You'd rather knock them out of their saddle or off the track," Moordryd nodded, knowing all too well from experience. "I'm not strong enough to do that, especially in a real fight."

"'A real fight'," Artha echoed. He looked at the other boy thoughtfully.

Pale and whipcord thin, Moordryd looked less imposing than most of the girls on the race circuit. Many people underestimated him when they raced for the first time, often left smeared on the asphalt from his vicious track combat, but Artha also knew that dragon hide jackets like Moordryd's were good for absorbing hits in return. And Moordryd wore it all the time.

"How often do you get into fights?" Artha asked.

Moordryd shrugged. "Between stealing dragons, fighting off City Security, or riders who try to jump me after a race? More often than you think."

Now that Artha could believe. He had no doubt Moordryd made more enemies than friends. Even if he didn't, Moordryd had access to black market and specialized gear that less scrupulous riders drooled over. Illegal gear that passed for regular, the hidden bonemark Decepshun had absorbed, even little details like a helmet with a spoiler to increase lift spoke volumes to how much effort Moordryd put into his schemes to ride faster and meaner.

But he didn't get to ask anything else. Moordryd was clearly tired of the conversation.

"Ready for another form?" he asked, not caring what his answer was.

Moordryd held his jack stick lengthwise, turning to one side as he stepped forward. At his side, Artha shadowed his movements.

Watching from a darkened window in the house, Connor Penn wished he could hear them. He would ask Artha later, but teenagers were hard to get information from. Although he worried about his son forming any kind of friendship with Moordryd, he felt the glimmer of hope that Artha had spoken of after their battle with Armeggadon.

Connor knew his old friend's mannerisms well, and he saw them reflected in Moordryd. Word's connection to his son suffered because of his paranoia, suspecting betrayal in everything the boy did, and Moordryd learned to distrust his father and everyone around him, including Cain to an extent. Only recently had those suspicions begun to fade with their reconciliation after Cain's mutiny.

Although he disliked thinking in such mercenary terms, Connor hoped that Artha could sway Moordryd from helping start the war. From what Connor could see here, and from what Artha had told him about previous battles, he guessed that Moordryd starved for attention. He was sure Moordryd's ambition for the black draconium gauntlet was borne from his simple desire to please Word, but the boy clearly didn't want bloodshed. If they could take the shadow booster out of the fight, or better yet, bring him to their side--

No. He shook his head. No one could predict the future. But watching the two rivals practice together, he was reminded of how he and Word were once inseparable. If they could become bitter enemies, perhaps their sons could become friends.


	8. Chapter 8

Leaning back on Decepshun's head, Moordryd took a brief moment to grab the small canteen clipped to the saddle and raise it to his lips, draining it in one go. In a race, he wouldn't have brought even that small bit of unnecessary weight, but this wasn't a race. It wasn't. At least he kept telling himself that, but every time they sprinted forward with Artha and Beau beside them, he felt Decepshun's muscles tighten and felt the adrenalin trickle into his system. So hard to keep in step through basic rider drills when their rivals were following along, and all it would take was a nudge of Decepshun's tail-

There was the swack sound of a tail striking scales, and Beau stumbled on one knee while Decepshun took just one more step forward, grinning in triumph.

"Geez," Artha grumbled, clinging to his saddle so he wouldn't fall. "Your dragon's as bad as you are. You okay, Beau?"

Beau whuffed and sidestepped to the right, just out of the other dragon's reach. He didn't mind learning new techniques with Artha, but the black dragon's tail was becoming horribly distracting. She kept trying to trip him up, knocking him behind his knees, and the sand of Penn Stables' arena didn't help his footing.

"She doesn't like being crowded," Moordryd said, patting her neck. "Usually we're alone when we do this."

Pausing to turn that over in his head, Artha gave him a look. "That must've been really lonely."

Moordryd half-shrugged. "Cain tried it for awhile. It was too boring for him."

Artha nodded. Easy to imagine Cain growing annoyed by the drills. They called for patience and diligent attention, nimble turns that all too easily sent a rider sprawling. Even Beau had difficulty performing some of the steps.

"You sure you don't wanna try powering up?" Moordryd asked, leaning so he could see Beau eye to eye. "Might make it easier."

With a toss of his head, Beau simply drew even with Decepshun and prepared for another try, ignoring her rumbling laughter. He looked over his shoulder to make sure she wasn't about to swipe his legs again, and her tail whipped out of sight again as she pretended she wasn't trying to sabotage him.

Not that she had to. The trick about the drills was that it was easier for a dragon that was low to the ground. Decepshun spread her legs out first to stabilize herself, slightly exaggerating her movements so that Beau could copy her. Then she crouched, sprang forward and landed, sliding only an inch or two on the sand. On asphalt, her claws could have stuck in and she wouldn't have moved at all. On top of her, Moordryd clung tightly to the saddle and easily kept his seat, partly because he knew from practice when to go rigid and when to go loose, but more because Decepshun knew how to arch her back and let her legs bend, taking the shock of landing herself instead of transferring it all onto Moordryd.

Beside them, Beau tried to soften his landing, but he was a large, muscular dragon and sand exploded out from under his paws as he slid several feet. Artha didn't go flying off again, but he held on so tight that his legs were wrapped around Beau's neck. As the dust settled, Beau held steady until Artha relaxed.

"Maybe we'd be better off doing some sideways running," Moordryd said, eyeing the way Artha's knuckles had turned white around the handles.

"No," Artha said stubbornly. "I'm gonna get this. We're gonna get this. Decepshun doesn't throw _you_ all over the arena."

Beau heard his critical tone and groaned, giving him a mild headtoss that rattled Artha's teeth.

"He's bigger than her," Moordryd said, exasperated because he'd explained it three times. "It's like...you couldn't expect Egghead's dragon to keep pace with your girlfriend's dragon, right?"

"She's not my girlfriend," Artha muttered. "Besides, Beau should be able keep pace with Decepshun. We're always pretty close in the races, right?"

"It's not the same," Moordryd said. He shook his head in surprise at how little Artha seemed to intuitively know. "How much did your dad teach you before you started playing the hero?"

"Um..." Artha grinned sheepishly, giving Beau a glare as his dragon laughed. "Well, I wasn't even all that interested in learning about 'em until recently."

Moordryd and Decepshun both gave them looks, and as Decepshun eyed the arena around them, Moordryd tried to explain a little.

"Stable brat, you might have your thruster gear, but that doesn't change the fact that your dragon is twice mine's size," he said, shifting slightly to keep facing Artha as Decepshun slowly turned her head. "That trick a couple races ago where she race down the sign to the lower level? Your dragon would've snapped that sign in half. We can go places you can't. We-"

Suddenly Decepshun veered away, sprinting across the sand. Startled, Moordryd clung to his saddle and set himself into his usual position, following her lead as she nimbly leaped up on top of the crates that Penn had carefully stacked again. The crates barely shuddered with her weight, and as she jumped the short distance to the stable roof, none of the crates jostled under her sure claws.

She slid across the stables like a black streak that then sailed up onto the arena stands, running across seats that would have buckled under a heavier dragon. On the sand, Artha whistled in appreciation. She moved along the back of the seats as if they were a balance beam, only slipping once as she came off and down the stairs.

Just as impressive, Artha realized, was the way that Moordryd also gave her free rein. He never tried to pull her in a different direction or check her speed, but rather activated her thrusters when she needed the extra boost or used a quick grappling hook to help her around the curves, latching onto the light pole with just enough line that she could run along the far wall as she went.

Only a few seconds after she started, she came back down to the arena, one paw sliding as she stepped onto the sand. Moordryd used a light mag push to steady her, bracing her from the fall and even boosting her speed again.

When she came came to rest in front of Beau, she grinned sideways at him.

"I guess she wanted to show you instead," Moordryd said, patting her neck. "Your dragon would've smashed those seats into gravel."

Artha nodded slowly, absorbed with another thought. "It's like you're her dragon."

Moordryd looked up sharply. "What?"

"You were handling her gear," Artha said. "When everyone else rides, we expect our dragon to think about that. Believe me, I have first hand experience knowing what it's like as a dragon."

Despite the irritated look it earned him, Beau snickered as he remembered the time Artha had been in his body, flailing around and tripping over his own feet, unable to keep the gear magged to him half the time. Not that he'd enjoyed trying to be human, but he hadn't looked as ridiculous as Artha stumbling around with four legs.

"But you didn't make her do anything," Artha continued. "She ran the course. You were activating all the gear."

Considering that, Moordryd remembered the way he'd slowly changed his racing habits. It had helped when Decepshun claimed her bonemark, learning all the techniques and secrets of the previous warrior dragon, but she had been bred for intelligence. Lately he'd been able to leave most of the racing to her, whereas other riders tried to split their attention between steering their mounts at the same time that they attacked him with their jack sticks and knocked over targets on the course.

"I've always trusted her," he said. "Besides, she doesn't need me to show her how to race. She was just concentrating on the run and there were no targets to hit with a mag pulse."

Decepshun's sides heaved as she panted, and Beau looked little better. Neither of them said anything about taking a break, but as if they'd agreed, both of them turned their dragons towards the stables, walking them back for lunch. As they came to the dragon's dishes, Artha hopped off his saddle and headed for the fresh bags of chow, while Moordryd gingerly slid from Decepshun and leaned against her.

"Showoff," he muttered. "Did you forget I had a fight while I was sick? While you got to rest the whole time?"

If she felt any sympathy, she didn't show it, nudging him towards the watering trough. Taking the hint, he turned the valve and started the water so the dragons could drink, and as soon as the trough was full enough that they could get a mouthful, he took a quick drink from the hose itself.

Behind him, someone's footsteps scuffed in the sand and came closer. He would have thought that they were using the running water to mask their approach, but the scuffing had to be intentional so he didn't spook. None of the other stable brats would have thought to do that, so it had to be Artha's father.

Probably. He hadn't lived this long by assuming he was safe. Acting as if he hadn't heard, Moordryd put his hand on the hilt of his energy whip as he glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder, relaxing when he saw the older man in his peripheral vision.

"Not many riders can do what you just pulled off," Penn said, pausing a few feet away. "From long practice, I take it."

Expecting an insult, Moordryd tilted his head in acknowledgment.

"The same training that lets you steal dragons?" Penn asked.

Narrowing his eyes, Moordryd set down the hose and gave Penn his full attention, patting Decepshun's hide when she growled over her shoulder. "It's all right, girl. Finish drinking."

"Why do you steal them?" Penn asked, careful to keep his voice neutral and hoping he'd get an answer if he didn't seem hostile, just curious. "Your family is one of the wealthiest in the city. You don't need the money and your father could buy whatever dragons he needs. If you're arrested, you'll be an easy target for Armeggaddon. And if people found out you're the Shadow Booster, your standing at the Academy will be ruined."

"True," Moordryd said, nodding once. "Of me and Artha both. So why do you let the stable brat play Dragon Booster?"

Penn bit off his first response, "to stop your father and you." His frustration must have shown because Moordryd smirked, but Penn took a breath and kept his cool.

"The war is coming," Penn said. "We may not be able stop it, but we have to do something about it."

As if in deep thought, Moordryd nodded, more to himself than Penn, then met the man's eyes.

"Same here," Moordryd said. "I have to stay in the game."

"'Game'," Penn echoed irately. Was Moordryd trying to upset him or did he really take life and death so lightly?

Not meaning to offend, Moordryd held his hand up. "Don't get your gear in a twist. It's all a game. Armeggaddon, you, me, stable brat, dad...we're all just players on the board. Armeggaddon makes a move, I react, you react to me, and on and on. I have to stay in the game if I wanna come out on top."

That made Penn wonder. "And what's 'on top'?"

Moordryd paused. It was impossible to believe that everything he wanted could come about-the rule of dragons, him in equal esteem with Decepshun, Armeggadon dead, no war. Certainly not the way he hoped. The Security forces could barely handle him without his booster gear. If a battle truly erupted in the city, the people and the dragons inside would only be able to run, and when the roads and towers began to crash and fall, there would be no place to run. Dragons would die. People would die.

"Alive," he said, feeling as if he was conceding a point he didn't want to concede. "Me and Decepshun, Cain, Coershun, my crew...alive."

Penn blinked. "That's it?"

Wrong thing to say. Moordryd's eyes flashed as he stood straight, snarling as his temper flared. "What, not noble enough? I'd love to change the world so no one dies, but with Armeggaddon and you and my father and everything, I'll be lucky if I can save any of us!"

Moordryd turned and walked off, knowing he was acting like a child and not caring. He didn't want to finish that conversation anyway. He sat down hard in the stable, waiting for Decepshun to finish eating so he could stretch out against her side and pretend to sleep.

"You mean that?"

Of course stable brat had been listening. Sighing heavily, Moordryd glared at Artha, refusing to face him as the other boy left the dragons with their full feed trough and knelt beside him. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"But-"

"I said I don't wanna talk about it," Moordryd snapped, turning away. "I have my reasons."

"The same reasons you saved me from the wraith gear?" Artha asked as he suddenly made the link between what had happened that day and the other boy's demeanor. "You've changed, Moordryd. Something about that day changed you."

"I'm still the same Paynn," Moordryd said, sitting up straight to face him as if his honor had been challenged. "I steal dragons, I cheat at games-"

"And you trip up your father's plans," Artha said. "There was a time your dad loved the Shadow Booster, and now he's as eager to stop you as me."

Moordryd winced. He remembered his father praising the Shadow Booster, lavishing praise on an unknown rider instead of his own son. The twinge of satisfaction in thwarting his father was tempered by the lack of any affection from him.

"What was it about that day?" Artha asked, pressing now that he knew he was on the right track. He'd once told his father that there was hope that they could stand against Armeggaddon as a group, and he felt that he was only a step away from winning Moordryd to their side. Hope flowered up inside him and made him keep going. "Your father could have ruled the whole city if it wasn't for you. But you stopped him. Not me. You. Why?"

As if he was riding through those streets again, he remembered the sheer silence of that day. There had been no blood, no gore, but the stillness was even worse. Like he and Decepshun were the last ones alive in the entire city, passing by people frozen in place. Moordryd remembered the loneliness and silence as Decepshun gingerly avoided knocking over people and dragon alike, afraid they might shatter if they fell.

"Frozen statues," Moordryd muttered bitterly. "Might as well of been corpses. What's the point of ruling if everyone's dead?"

Artha paused, then murmured, "A dragon human war would leave a lot of people dead."

"Worse," Moordryd said, shaking his head once. "The city'll come apart. It'll all come crashing down. No one'll survive."

Taking a deep breath, Artha tensed and hoped he wasn't destroying everything by pushing too fast, but he'd always done his best when he simply trusted his heart and charged in like Beau.

"Then help me."

Startled, Moordryd leaned back away from him, suddenly aware of how close Artha was. He could feel the heat of his body next to his, as if Artha was looming over him in a race and pulling ahead.

"What?"

"Help me keep this war from happening," Artha said. His heart leaped in joy at seeing the surprise and confusion on the other boy's face. Certainty of the outcome settled on him. He would win this, he knew it. "Neither of us wants anyone to die. We're stronger together. Help me. We can defeat Armeggaddon-"

"What about the dragons?" Moordryd demanded, clearly disbelieving Artha could do anything. "They still get treated like animals-"

"We'll show the city what they can do," Artha said. "Beau and Decepshun, they can show everyone what happens when you release the dragon. When we're equal partners."

Moordryd's gaze wavered, then rose again. "My father?"

"We've stopped him from taking over the city before," Artha said. He didn't add anything else to that. Prison or death, only those would stop Word completely, and Moordryd would never agree to either of those. Artha would just hope that the uncertainty of the future would give them some kind of solution later.

"I..." His voice trailing off, Moordryd looked away.

The lack of confidence startled Artha. Moordryd always seemed so sure of himself, so arrogant as he did what was best for him and his crew and no one else. Moordryd had faced down the council itself multiple times. But faced with an offer of friendship and trust, Moordryd didn't seem to know what to do. He stared at the wall for a moment, then glanced at Decepshun.

She didn't move, and Artha realized with a start that he'd half-expected her to either approve or disapprove the decision. But for all the faith Moordryd had in her, she was content to wait and see what he did.

"It's impossible," Moordryd said, getting up and moving away from Artha, keeping his back to him as Artha followed. "I'm his son. I can't betray him."

"And what'll happen if you help him?" Artha demanded, right on his heels. "He sparks the war, the city crumbles and we all die."

"That's what you say," Moordryd breathed, moving past the doors, past a surprised Penn, walking into the sandy arena. "Maybe if he did it fast enough, if he could take over without blowing anything up-"

"He can't enslave people," Artha snapped. "Not without killing some of them. And you know he couldn't rule them for long before they rebelled-"

"But it wouldn't be bad," Moordryd said, turning to face him. "Dragons in control, the way it should be. They wouldn't..."

His voice trailed off and he looked away, unable to complete that thought. Artha took a deep breath to steady himself.

"They wouldn't what? Be cruel? Hurt people? You can't lie to yourself." Artha motioned at Beau and Decepshun. "They've got different personalities just like us. They aren't gods, Moordryd. Some of them will want revenge."

Refusing to face him, Moordryd closed his eyes in pain. All around them, the lights and sounds of the city faded away until they were alone in a deep silence where their breath sounded loud and every movement felt obvious and awkward. Artha wished that he could tap into some hidden wellspring of eloquence, some fine phrasing or even a quote that would tip Moordryd to his side.

"I can't fight this battle without the Shadow Booster," Artha said softly. "We'll only win if you're there with me."

"You're asking me to betray my father," Moordryd whispered. The thought of what he might have to do, fighting his father, even killing-he winced and hunched as if he'd been hit.

"If you don't do this," Artha said slowly, deliberately, "then your father is going to die. The war will kill you, your crew, your dragon...and him at the end."

No argument. Only the wind blowing past, chilling them as the night came on. The purple twilight faded into darkness and the stable lights barely reached this far, leaving them in the dark. The city felt miles away, twinkling like a mirage.

"Stop the war," Artha said, sounding as if he was reciting a list, "show everyone that the dragons are our equals. Stop your father."

Moordryd didn't speak for several seconds, staring at nothing for so long that Artha worried that he'd blown any chance of a partnership. But until he was sure, he wouldn't move, waiting the other boy out. He held his breath as Moordryd glanced over his shoulder.

"You won't like the way I do things," Moordryd said slowly. "I'm not a hero. I'm a thief."

Grinning broadly, Artha shrugged. "You're a good thief. We'll probably need those skills before this is all over."

As if a heavy weight had slipped from his shoulders, Moordryd sighed and stood straight again. He didn't smile, and a dozen thoughts clearly tumbled around behind his narrowing eyes. Cooking up new schemes already? Artha wished he could look inside Moordryd's head and figure out what made the other boy tick. He resolved to understand Moordryd in and out, and the sooner, the better.

"Okay," Moordryd said. "Then I'm in."

On instinct, Artha extended his hand. With only a little hesitation, Moordryd took it.

Back at the stable, Penn watched them, first in disbelief, then in growing hope.


	9. Chapter 9

With his decision made, Moordryd had to find a way to explain to Cain how things had changed.

Calling his friend over their saddle view screens, Moordryd explained how they were no longer going to fight Dragon Booster. How the Shadow Booster was now working with the stable brat. How together they would defeat Armeggaddon and win the war, perhaps even avert the human dragon war completely.

Cain's response was not surprising.

"Are you insane?"

Moordryd sighed and waited for his friend to finish.

"Seriously?" Cain cried, leaning too close to the screen. "I thought we were fighting the Dragon Booster- now we're joining him? What, was our fighting that bad? We can't beat 'em so we're joining them? Stable brat, Egg head, the mini brat...You really wanna be on the crew with a kid too young to race? We'll be the laughingstock of the circuit! They only started racing 'cause Penn Stables wanted a dragon in the races for advertising." Cain slapped his hand against his forehead, groaning explosively. "Scales, Moordryd. What am I gonna tell Rancyd and Blarre? How am I gonna face the crews on the race track? I mean, it's not like you're coming back to the circuit..."

"Whoa," Moordryd snapped, halting him. "I'm not changing crews. Who said I'm not coming back?"

Cain blinked. "You're kidding, right?"

"No." Moordryd leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he sensed something else was wrong. "Why would I?"

"Uh, the evil guy who blew up the road to kill you?" Cain asked. "Did you just forget? Land too hard falling off your dragon?"

"No, I didn't forget," Moordryd snapped. "But me and the stable brat beat him before."

"Yeah, with two other ancient warriors on gigantic dragons," Cain said. "Geez, one slumber party with stable brat and...oh. Oh."

Moordryd cringed, knowing where Cain's brain had gone. "No. It's not like that at all. This is a purely tactical decision." His friend didn't look convinced and he sighed. "For crying out loud, it's the stable brat we're talking about."

"Uh-huh." Cain frowned. "Well, if that's true, then I think we need to talk."

The look in Cain's eye was one Moordryd didn't like. His friend had that same scheming look just before calling a mutiny down around Moordryd's head. Of course, he'd also had that look the day they both escaped out of the security holding cells for the first time. Cain was a lot smarter than most people liked to give him credit for. Moordryd not only couldn't keep him out of the loop, but more importantly, he didn't want to.

"You're right," he said. "When can you get here without being seen?"

Cain briefly considered. "Not today. Your father's calling back all the wraiths and now we're not just stumbling over them. They're actually running into us."

"He's calling them back?" Moordryd wondered. "So he's stopped looking for me? Wait, does that mean he knows where I am?"

Cain shook his head, soothing Moordryd's first stab of hurt.

"No, but I think he's gonna go out himself."

Himself? Moordryd breathed in. His father might go out and look himself! But then he shook his head. He'd had his hopes dashed before. He'd believe it when he saw it.

"Whatever," he said. "Come tomorrow just after nightfall. Don't be seen."

"Don't have to tell me," Cain grumbled. "Between your dad, Armeggaddon, City Security...we're lucky if we make a snack run without getting caught."

"You can stay out of sight if you go deep," Moordryd said. "Nobody'll look at you if you use the undercity. Just don't go too deep."

Cain shivered. "No kidding. Armeggaddon's probably hiding down there. All right, we'll see you tomorrow. And then we'll make sure you aren't drugged or...well, whatever."

Moordryd sighed and waved him off. "Yeah, yeah, fine. Moordryd out."

Turning off the screen, Moordryd tossed the saddle aside and stood, leaning against the stable doorframe. Only the thin neon gloom broke the darkness, the perpetual twilight of these middle levels that faded to complete darkness in the lower mines and industrial quarters. Dragon city kept secrets in its lonely streets, and tonight he wasn't as comfortable in the shadows as usual.

Just out of earshot, Penn and Artha spoke in low tones under the light outside their home. He watched them for awhile, struck that they had their living quarters beside the stables. Most people in the city didn't live side by side with their dragons, but the Penns seemed to center their lives around "releasing the dragon." Although they didn't want dragons to rule, they at least were far superior to the rest of the city.

Or was he just trying to justify changing sides to himself?

It didn't matter what he told himself.

Traitor. The word stuck in his head.

Against his _father_.

Would he have to fight his father?

Would he have to kill-?

No!

He slammed his hand against the wall, wincing not in pain but in denial. It wouldn't come to that. He wouldn't kill his father. He wouldn't see his father in prison. He didn't know how but...

Footsteps. Moordryd stood straight and faced Penn as he came closer. He didn't want to seem weak or conflicted in front of him. Bad enough he was at this man's convenience, but Penn seemed able to look into his soul and see his confusion.

"I can only imagine how hard this is for you," Penn said. "But you've made the right choice."

Moordryd opened his mouth to answer, then turned his head with a grimace. He couldn't even talk without his throat closing up on him.

"We've come so close to the brink of war so many times now," Penn said after a pause, reading Moordryd's emotion. "And we've pulled back each time. You may not have to face your father in battle."

"That's what you say," Moordryd said, then shook his head dismally. "It doesn't matter. If we fight, I won't hurt him. If he ends up in prison, I'll get him out."  
"If he doesn't get himself out first," Penn said. "Don't underestimate him. You're his son in more ways than you realize..."

Moordryd studied him for a long moment. The older man seemed like he wanted to say something, to explain something Moordryd didn't understand. Then the moment passed and Penn stared up at the smoky streets above them.

"I just came to thank you and try to reassure you," Penn said. "I never wanted us to fight. Not with you or your father. We'll need all the colors of draconium to balance against the war."

"Stable brat said something like that, too," Moordryd said slowly. "That he knew he wouldn't win without the Shadow Booster. What do you mean by that?"

Penn stared at him in surprise. "Your father never told you about the ancient war?"

"Not much," Moordryd said. "He was always inventing new gears. We...don't really talk..."

Penn hesitated. The pain on Moordryd's face was palpable, but to bring himself to trust the boy so quickly after his change of heart...what if this was just a trick? What if Moordryd was planning yet another double cross? How could he reveal so many secrets so soon?

"Artha says Beau accepted you as her rider once," Penn said suddenly, talking more to himself than Moordryd. "Lance says you really care about your dragon. And I've seen you put yourself in harm's way to save him, to save your dragon. To save the whole city and Artha from your father's gear."

Moordryd frowned. Why was Penn going on about all that?

"You don't know if you can trust me," Moordryd realized.

"I want to trust you," Penn said. "It isn't fair for you to fight alongside us without revealing what we know."

"But I'm a Paynn," Moordryd said.

"You're a Paynn that's tried to steal my dragons and cheats every chance he gets," Penn said with half a smile. "I don't have a great security grid to keep out every thief in the city. Just you and your Dragon Eyes."

"It's good to have some respect," Moordryd said with a cocky grin, but he shook his head. "I didn't try to cheat in that last Academy race. And I didn't try in the final Academy round. But...father and Armeggaddon, they didn't think I could win on my own."

Penn saw the hurt behind the proud exterior. He couldn't imagine what it was like to have a father and a mentor both think he was lacking. How much of Moordryd's posturing and acting out was just trying to get Word's attention and praise? The boy had been the darling of the city for awhile as he rescued people from wraith dragons. He'd won countless races against older and stronger riders, and he'd even jockeyed for power against Phistus, nearly taking over the Council. All for Word's approval.

His former friend had no idea what he was doing as his paranoia and control issues pushed Moordryd away.

Penn resolved not to make the same mistake. As ruthless as it was, he would not waste this opportunity dropped in his lap.

"Maybe it's easier to see what you're capable of from our side," Penn said. "You were my son's only real rival. Together we'll defeat Armeggaddon and stop the war, I'm sure of it."

Moordryd shrugged. He wasn't sure of anything now.

"But we'll have to trust each other," Penn said. "I don't think it'll happen overnight but I'm willing to start. Come inside. I'll tell you the ancient stories of the first dragon human war, the dragon priests, and the reason your father and I have always been at odds with each other."

Startled, Moordryd looked up. Invited into the house with the rest of the Penn crew? No way. The old man was overestimating how the others would react.

"I don't think your crew'll be very happy with me in there for storyhour," Moordryd said.

"Artha's already explained everything to them," Penn said. "The rest is for you to show them. Besides, the real reason they may be annoyed is if they have to sit through my stories one more time."

Unsure, Moordryd glanced at Decepshun only to find her fast asleep, curled tail to snout. She wouldn't miss him. Knowing her, she wouldn't wake up until he came to scrape her scales the next morning. And maybe Penn would let him crash on a couch. He was tired of sleeping on the floor, even if it was with his dragon.

"This isn't just the old history book stuff, right?" Moordryd asked. "'Cause those were always pretty boring."

"Your books never gave you the real history," Penn shook his head. "I don't know everything myself, but I can tell you a lot more than any of your tutors."

Penn started to walk back to the house, and against his better judgment, Moordryd followed.

As they went in the front door, however, Moordryd heard raised voices arguing back and forth. He stayed at Penn's side as he watched Artha facing off with Kitt and, to a lesser extent, Parmon. Lance sat on the sofa, rolling his eyes theatrically.

"I don't care what he said," Kitt said, waving away whatever Artha had said. "He's Moordryd Paynn! His father's the one trying to cause the war we're trying to stop."

"Indeed," Parmon nodded. "He has lied in the past. How do we know for sure that we can trust him?"

"If you're so worried," Moordryd said, crossing his arms as they noticed him. "You can ask the stable brat's dragon. You'd probably take his word over mine."

"No kidding," Kitt snapped. "You're a sneaky, lying cheat."

"Even if you are telling the truth," Parmon said, "you'd be fighting your own father. Could you really betray him like that? Even if you have to...well, war being war, even if you have to..."

Polite to a fault, Parmon trailed off with the unspoken possibility. The mere thought of killing his father made Moordryd sick to his stomach. Good thing he hadn't eaten much beside a few handfuls of dragon chow-dry and not tasty, but any rider grew used to it when it was the quickest snack on the track. But if he had to think about fighting his father, his nerves wouldn't even let him keep that down.

"I know what I might have to do," Moordryd said, and his voice grew softer as he admitted it to himself. "If I have to..."

The weight of what that might mean lay heavily in the air. No one spoke. He felt like an absolute failure as a son, even more so because he couldn't make himself choose otherwise. Helping the stable brat was his only choice, and Artha's reassuring smile did little to ease the guilt.

The room was silent for a moment. Kitt stared at him, then looked at Artha and huffed.  
"Fine. Fine!" She crossed her arms and leaned back on her heels. "Trust him. Here's hoping this doesn't get us killed."

"You think you're the only one extending a little trust?" Moordryd snapped back. "How do I know you won't call City Security down on me?"

"I'm not the one with an honesty problem," Kitt smirked.

"That's enough," Penn said, slamming the end of his stick on the floor like a gavel. In the ensuing silence, he looked at each of them in turn, not speaking until all of them had visibly calmed.

"This won't be easy for any of us," Penn started. "We may not become friends, but at the very least we have to work together. We need the Shadow Booster, and frankly none of us wants to see anyone die."

Kitty snorted, but Penn held her look, and after a moment her expression softened and she glanced at Moordryd again.

"Why _are_ you joining us?" she asked slowly.

Moordryd half shrugged, but no matter how much he wanted to act casual, he struggled to choke out the answer. Memories of a city full of statues, of a city as silent as a grave... His look flickered toward Lance, then back to Kitt.

"To...stop my father," he said. "To stop the war so none of my crew dies. If I can even manage that."

About to yell at him again, she paused despite herself. There was much more unspoken there than Moordryd cared to admit or even to reveal. A kind of helpless hope, like he didn't expect to win. Or that maybe no matter what happened, he would lose. She frowned and examined him again.

"Fine," she said at last. "I'll try. But one stolen dragon and I swear the deal's off."

Just means I have to be extra sneaky, he thought, but he only half smiled and nodded.

"Well then," Parmon said, wary but smiling as he trusted Penn. "I suppose that means no more fighting in the street?"

"If only that were true," Penn said. "Armeggaddon is still out there, and Wo-we still face the coming war." He only just managed to avoid mentioning Word, sparing Moordryd's feelings.

"Then what's next?" Artha asked.

"For now, more history," Penn said, taking a seat and motioning everyone else to do the same.

Now that he had a moment, Moordryd quickly cased the room. Years of thievery meant he spotted the exits first-two windows, a hallway that led out of sight and another door, probably to the kitchen. Kitt and Parmon stayed across from him, starting to sit on the long couch against the wall. Lance took up the small sofa in the corner, and in front of him stood the low table holding someone's open drinks. On his side of the room were two sofas, and while he didn't feel at ease, at least he didn't think Kitt would smack her stick into his face. He sat down on the sofa closest to the door.

"Aw man," Lance whined, falling dramatically across the couch. "Again? We've all heard it a dozen times."

"Not all of us," Penn said, nodding at Moordryd. "And not all of it. I never explained the link between the black draconium empire and the Shadow Booster."

"What's to explain?" Moordryd asked, cautiously turning his attention from Kitt to Penn. "The Shadow Booster came from the black draconium empire, just like the other boosters came from their empires."

"Yeah," Artha said as he sat down in the last chair by Moordryd. "And we know these gauntlets are meant to be used together."

"True," Penn said. "But the black draconium gauntlet wasn't immediately used to unite the humans and dragons. Quite the opposite. The first Shadow Booster fought on the side of the empire for years."

Moordryd frowned. He remembered the image of the Shadow Booster and Dragon Booster fighting side by side, but if the Shadow Booster had been loyal to his empire...

"Then they must have been enemies," he realized. "For a long time."

"Bitter enemies," Penn said. "He stole the black draconium armor from its dragon creators. It took years to recover from the theft to create the other booster armors, especially while the gold armor had to be used to fight off the thief."

"'Stolen'," Parmon echoed. "Then the previous Shadow Booster was also a thief?"

"Black draconium lends itself to stealth and cunning," Penn said. "It's a natural fit."

"Wait," Moordryd said, leaning forward. "Why did the original Shadow Booster change sides?"

"I don't know," Penn said. "The old stories aren't all that clear, probably because he never gave anyone a clear reason. The stories only say that he could no longer serve the humans and so he gave himself up to his dragon."

Kitt frowned. "That sounds a little too much like Propheci and the orange dragons."

"Not really," Artha said slowly. "In fact, it sounds more like what me and Beau did to win against them. When we kind of started to become one."

"True equality," Penn agreed. "Much like you've done on the track already, Moordryd."

"What?" Moordryd looked up, interrupted from his thoughts.

"Ever since she gained her bonemark, you've given her free rein during each race," Penn said. "I've been watching closely. She's probably the most intelligent dragon on the track."

"Except for Beau," Artha grinned.

Moordryd snorted but let it pass. A larger question pressed at him. "The black empire didn't treat dragons well, did they?"

Penn shook his head. "Black dragons are bred for intelligence, but while the empire wanted to breed them to be even smarter, they weren't trying to give them free will. They wanted something closer to what the Army of the Dragon has, dragons that take orders well."

An image of Decepshun developed in Moordryd's thoughts, of her standing in a row of black dragons, all of them in lock step, all of them obediently serving and laying down their lives for human masters. He considered all of that for a moment, then looked up at Penn and carefully chose his words.

"What was the Black Draconium Empire like really?" he asked.

Penn took a breath before he answered. He didn't want to insult Moordryd-the boy held ideas very like the empire's-but he didn't want to paint the empire as something noble, either.

"They valued things that made them despised by the other empires. Since they couldn't face strong empires like the Green or the Brown head on, stealth and trickery, that's what they valued. For awhile they flourished, holding their own against the other empires and living side by side with the dragons.

"But during the war, they used the conflict as an excuse to breed and tame their dragons just like the other empires did. They fought the Dragon Booster for years, certain that he was just a plot from the dragons to take over. And although the Shadow Booster was loyal to his empire..."

Penn let his voice trail off. He didn't have to explain.

"He was more loyal to his dragon," Moordryd finished quietly.

All of them were silent for a moment. The parallels were obvious, overwhelming.

"Black dragon riders always have a deep connection to their dragons," Penn said. "The better they are, the more connected they are, but that connection often frightens off many riders."

Struck by what his father was saying, Artha looked at Moordryd in sympathy. "What's it like riding Decepshun? With that bone mark, she's probably in your thoughts deeper than even before."

"It's not like that," Moordryd said. "She's only smarter. More than me sometimes. She's the one who figured out where the bone marks were. She found the map and helped me read it, and then she showed me what we had to do to open the doors."

"Whoa," whispered Lance. "She's already in charge?"

"No," Moordryd said firmly. "She never makes me do anything. We work together."

"Like the original boosters," Penn said.

Kitt snorted, clearly thinking that Moordryd wasn't anything like the original boosters. "What happened to them after the war anyway? Did they just ride off into the sunset?"

"Not at all," Penn said with a faint smile. "They helped establish the dragon priests, this city, and did their best to keep the peace. But with no more pure dragons, there were no more dragons to choose their riders, and over time the armor and even their existence faded away."

"What were they like?" Moordryd asked.

"Young at first," Penn said. "There's more recorded about the battles they fought than who they were. That's the main reason we know a little more about the Shadow Booster, since he fought against them for so long."

Artha grinned. "I'm glad we won't have to do that. The first Shadow Booster must've been real stubborn."

Stubborn? Moordryd didn't think so, although he didn't say anything. He had joined them out of concern for his crew, his father and the city. If Word Paynn had seemed more likely to win, if the war could be won and humans put under the claw of their dragons, Moordryd knew he wouldn't have turned at all. He'd have knelt in front of Decepshun, much as he'd acted the first time he thought he'd displeased Armeggaddon, and pledged his service, and he would have had an honored position as the first family of humans in a society led by dragons.

"What are you smiling about?" Kitt asked suspiciously.

Not realizing he'd been half-grinning, he wiped the look from his face and shook his head quickly. "Sorry, just...thinking about the past. The real question is what do we do now? My father will be looking for me, Armeggaddon is still out there..."

"I hesitate to send you back to Word now that you've changed your mind," Penn said. "For all your attempts in the past, you're not a very good liar. He would see through you fast enough."

"Would you father actually hurt you?" Parmon asked.

"No," Moordryd said. "But I don't' think he'd let me out of the citadel ever again."

"Not to mention that you'd be a sitting duck for Armeggaddon," Lance said. "If he figures out where you are, you're history."

"Maybe not," Penn said. "After all, we held him off before."

"Yeah, with two ancient warriors," Moordryd muttered. "Whoever the heck they are."

"Nevertheless," Penn said, letting the comment slide, "you need more training. It's especially important that you two learn to integrate your attacks and fight as a team. And Parmon, it's vital that we find the amulet for your gauntlet."

"That means more searching in the ancient city, doesn't it?" Parmon asked, already knowing the answer.

Kitt patted his shoulder. "It's okay, professor. Me and Artha'll be with you."

"I'm afraid not," Penn said. "You and Parmon will have to go alone."

"What?" Parmon gasped, curling into a scared ball. "With the hydrags and that maniac running around?"

"You two can handle yourselves," Penn said. "You're both level headed. And I don't think Armeggaddon is down there right now. He's trying to attack Moordryd, which means he must be somewhere in the city. We need to draw him out before he recovers any more strength."

"Now?" Moordryd asked, sharing a little of Parmon's fear. "I don't think I'm up to that kind of a fight yet."

"I still have a few things I can try," Penn said. "You aren't going to be fighting, not yet. First thing will be to tell your father that you're alive and well. He's obviously frantic."

Moordryd didn't answer. After being called worthless and hearing Word call the Shadow Booster "the son he never had," it was hard to believe his father cared that much.

"And I need to speak with him," Penn added. "There may not be much we can put aside our differences for, but this is certainly one of them."

Penn talk to Word? Moordryd could only guess how that would go, and it involved wraith dragons and explosions. He did not look forward to making that call. He'd rather fight Armeggaddon than talk to his father.

The conversation dwindled after that as everyone thought of the things they'd have to accomplish the next day. Moordryd didn't mention Cain's impending visit. There was enough to worry about right now. Weariness piled up on him and he decided that anything else Penn could tell him would have to wait until morning. With a tired mumble, he excused himself and headed for the stables, more eager to be around Decepshun than to have a comfortable bed.

In the silent arena, he felt more alone than ever, and halfway to the stables, he paused and stared at the gate. He could still change his mind, he told himself. He could still saddle up Decepshun, run for the Dragon Eyes crew and simply hide everyone he cared about. It would never work, he knew, but just the thought of running away was so tempting...

"Moordryd, wait!" Artha called out, jogging to catch up. He held out a rolled futon and a pillow. "Here, if you're really gonna sleep in the stables, you might as well be comfortable."

"Drac," Moordryd said, taking them gratefully. Decepshun's paw was comfortable enough, but she had a bad habit of suddenly stretching, which meant his head would hit the hard floor.

As Artha turned to go back in, Moordryd suddenly blurted out "wait a second."

Artha turned, then waited patiently as he watched embarrassment and need war across Moordryd's face. Finally the embarrassment won out.

"Thanks, stable brat," Moordryd murmured, starting towards the stable.

"Hey, don't worry," Artha said, misreading his look. "It'll be okay. There's no way that Armeggaddon can beat both of us. If it comes to that, I think we could take him out on our own."

Wishing that was true, Moordryd nodded once and watched him walk back before he went to Decepshun's side. He didn't bother to turn on the light. As he unrolled the futon against her side, she whuffed and shifted slightly, letting him set the pillow against her shoulder. As he lay down, he briefly remembered the sense of security he had years ago curling up against his nannydragon, listening to her heartbeat in the darkness. Decepshun's heart was quieter but just as steady.

Her tail drowsily swooped around, circling him so that her tailtip touched her nose. He lay like that for a long time, wondering what his father was doing, wondering what Cain was doing, and wondering what Armeggaddon was doing. For long hours, his mind went round and round as he tried to think of what he should be doing.


	10. Chapter 10

Although the city was still dark,Moordryd woke up not knowing why. He looked around, wondering what had roused him, and found Decepshun awake as well. She didn't look concerned, so he got to his feet and went to the door, looking through the grate.

In front of the house, Penn was helping Parmon and Kitt stow gear inside their saddles. Moordryd crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, adjusting slightly when Decepshun nudged him out of the way with her snout.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" Moordryd whispered.

She whuffed, giving him a dark look, and he rolled his eyes at her. His dragon could be so melodramatic. He listened intently, but he could only make out a handful of words as they packed.

"...gauntlet...map...make good time..."

Moordryd nodded to himself. So Parmon and Kitt were off to find their gauntlets. What was more interesting was how Penn had a map of any kind. The wastelands were just that, terrible wastes of vast deserts filled with hydrags and muortas. The relics of the dragon empires were scattered far and wide. Any kind of map would be priceless, let alone one that they could use to find the gauntlets.

Who exactly was Penn?

As Parmon and Kitt raced off, Moordryd watched Penn head back inside, and once again the arena was dark and quiet. Morning light only just started to pierce through the gloom of the midlevels.

"Might as well stay up," Moordryd said, yawning as he disrobed and stood under the shower usually meant for dragons. He shuddered under the cool spray and stepped out quickly, shaking the water out of his hair.

Decepshun whuffed again, using her tail to point at the bruise still mottling his calf. He turned and examined the mark, wincing as he touched it.

"Yeah, it still hurts a little," he said. "But it's not that bad."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He cringed back, knowing that look.

"Really," he insisted. "It's not that bad. I've been walking on it fine. It just needs exercise."

He didn't need to read her mind to know what she was thinking. He stayed out of the reach of her tail and picked up his clothes, dressing and grabbing his jack stick.

"Yeah, I know it's early," he grumbled. "And I could use more sleep. But it's not going to happen so I might as well work out a bit. I promise I won't push myself."

When she didn't nip the seat of his pants and yank him back against her side, as she had done on rare occasions, he figured he was safe and went outside, leaving the door ajar in case she followed. He took up the beginning stance of the first kata, slowly moved through the steps, and brought his jack stick around in an easy swing. The precision gave him a sense of control as everything else felt like free fall.

"Mind if I join you?"

Pausing, still holding his stick out, Moordryd looked over his shoulder at Artha, who heaved a giant bag of dragon feed at his side. Moordryd grinned and set his stick down, leaning on it as he gave a meaningful look to Artha's bag.

"Um..." Artha smiled sheepishly. "After I finish my chores, of course."

"Stable brat," Moordryd chuckled. "Sure. I'll still be here."

With a bright smile, Artha nodded and hurried to the stables, pouring out the feed into the large tank that distributed the meal evenly to the different stalls. Moordryd returned to his practice, beginning the next level kata. Then the third.

By the fourth kata, Artha had joined him and followed only a step behind, mimicking his moves. Moordryd noted that sometimes Artha practiced the new hand positioning that he'd shown him, and sometimes he reverted back to his favored jack stick technique. And sometimes...he narrowed his eyes.

Moordryd came to the end of the kata and looked over his shoulder at Artha, who looked confused as to why they weren't going onto the next form.

"Wanna try something different?" Moordryd asked.

"Huh?"

"A match," he said. "You against me."

"But..." Artha motioned towards Moordryd's leg. "You're still hurt. And you're still getting better from the bane attack."

"Not a real fight," Moordryd said, rolling his eyes at first. When he realized how puzzled Artha looked, he frowned. "The technical term is sparring. Practice fighting. Haven't you done that before?"

"Not much," Artha admitted with a shrug. "I mean, sure, there's during races, but it was only with Morti-I mean dad that I got any practice in, and even that was more about racing."

Moordryd felt a rush of smug superiority that crumbled almost as quickly. The stable brat didn't put in the hours of practice that he did, and yet he was almost as good a fighter as Moordryd. At first he wondered if he was simply a terrible fighter, then shook his head to himself. No. Artha was just a natural talent.

"Dad always said I'd end up hurting anyone else," Artha finished.

"Tch. No worries," Moordryd said. "I can take anything you can throw at me."

"Are you sure?" Artha said. "You're still kind of limping."

"I'll be limping for days," Moordryd snapped, annoyed at being pitied. "Those feed crates weigh a ton."

He paced for a moment, calming down again. He took a breath and faced Artha again. "I've fought on worse. It's nothing. And we need the practice."

"Well, I can't argue that," Artha said reluctantly. "And I would like to fight without both of us trying to kill each other."

With a nod, Artha came around and faced Moordryd, holding his jack stick out horizontally. Moordryd chose a vertical hold, standing at the ready. Neither moved, staring into the other's eyes, breathing steadily, waiting to see who would attack first-

Artha slid in the sand, punching his stick at Moordryd's chest. The other boy turned hard so that the stick missed, then brought his own stick around Artha's head. Artha ducked, and nearly took the other end in his face as Moordryd jerked the short end of his stick up.

Snapping his head aside, Artha avoided the hit and stood, bringing his stick in a spin that would have clipped Moordryd's jaw if it had connected. Instead Moordryd tilted his stick in a quick if clumsy block and took a step back, blocking Artha's next hit.

Now on the defense, Moordryd kept stepping back, doing less blocking than dodging. His eyes narrowed as he realized Artha had several moves that he favored, none of them his more serious attacks that he'd faced in a real fight, and he waited for Artha to swing wide before stepping in close, almost face to face.

"Gotcha," Moordryd smirked as he punched his stick forward.

Startled, Artha stumbled backwards as he dodged. Trying to buy himself some room, he brought his stick up and then tilted his wrist sharply, bringing his stick around again in a vicious circle so that the back half came around faster than he'd expected.

Moordryd moved almost too late. The stick whistled by his head as he dropped to one knee, wasting a precious few seconds leaning on his staff as he regained his balance.

"Guess again," Artha grinned.

A second later he had to jump to dodge Moordryd's sweep.

"Keep laughing," Moordryd said, straightening. "Next time my stick's going right-"

A rumble shook the floor, shifting the sand underfoot. Both of them wobbled unsteadily, and Artha dropped to one knee beside Moordryd. Both of them looked at each other questioningly, then looked up when they realized neither of them knew what was happening.

Smoke billowed out in a wide circle in a level overhead. A second later, there was a burst of sparks as another cloud of smoke slowly rose to the sky.

"What was that?" Moordryd breathed.

"I don't-"

Another explosion cut Artha off, sending shockwaves through the city that faded to a rumble as they reached down to the arena. Artha and Moordryd both shared a look.

"Armeggadon?" Moordryd asked.

"I don't think so," Artha said slowly. "He doesn't crash around like that. And you can barely feel the power level up there. That doesn't feel like eight dragons."

"Just one really big one," Moordryd nodded. "One of those huge warriors, maybe."

Artha glanced over to his home, where he spotted Penn leaning out of the window to look up. "Maybe. You up for checking it out?"

"You don't think he'll try to blast us?" Moordryd wondered. "Last time felt like a momentary truce, nothing else."

"We don't have to charge in blind," Artha said. "But I'm going. I can't let whatever's up there keep damaging the city."

Not mentioning that he wouldn't dare go if Artha wasn't there, Moordryd nodded.

"All right, let's go check it out," he said, heading back to the stables. "I hope it's just one of them, though."

To his relief, Decepshun was quick to get on her feet. If she wasn't at full health again, she at least looked like she could hold her own in a fight.

"Don't worry, girl," he said, patting her nose as she magged on her saddle and gear. "If it looks bad, you get us out of there."

She nodded, then lifted him into place. In front of her berth, Artha already sat on Beau, armored up. He watched in fascination as Moordryd summoned his own armor, still enthralled by seeing another transformation.

"I think we'll have a good chance," Artha said as Moordryd came out. "We're not going into this one alone, I think."

"Huh?" Moordryd followed his gaze and watched as a large, hidden door began sliding up against the wall of the arena. If he hadn't seen it move, he never would have thought it was there. "Whoa..."

"I guess dad figures we trust you," Artha said as he grinned. "Since you decided to trust us."

Stunned into silence, Moordryd felt Decepshun shy away behind Beau as a huge, red, four armed dragon stomped out of the doorway. On top, perched like a doll on a tank, was the dragon priest that had given him so much trouble in the past.

"Wait..." he groaned as he slowly realized. "You mean...all this time, it was...oh scales."

"Yeah," Artha laughed. "That's dad."

With some difficulty, Moordryd tried to reconcile the image of the stable brat's protective father with the fierce warrior sitting on top of that monstrous dragon. Memories of fighting Penn bridged the two in his mind.

"No wonder he's such a pain to fight," he muttered.

"At least your on his side now?" Artha offered.

"Ready, you two?" Penn called down from Tyrannis Pax. "Shadow Booster, be careful. My readings show you're not back to full energy yet."

"Don't worry about us!" Moordryd shouted up. "We can handle ourselves."

With a nod, Penn turned his dragon and headed for the main entrance. The amount of power crackling around him made Moordryd wonder why the walls didn't buckle out or the floor crack.

Reassured immensely, he breathed out a sigh and leaned down to whisper to Decepshun. "See? Told you we'd be okay."

Not convinced, she whuffed in return and ran at Beau's side into the streets. Almost immediately she leaped up onto one side of a neon billboard and jumped off, leaving the sign crumpled and giving her the leverage to land on top of the row of buildings. Unable to follow, Beau had to wait until they passed a shattered slab of pavement that had fallen from above, using it as a ramp to a lower building and then jumping up to join Moordryd.

"Taking the high ground?" Artha asked.

"No," Moordryd said, nodding at Penn beside them. "Just don't wanna get stepped on by that mountain of scales."

"You know, our comms are linked," Artha said casually. "He can hear what we say."

"Oh really?" Moordryd grumbled.

"Yes," Penn said loud enough to be heard through Artha's helmet. "And we should get you linked up, too. we're on the alpha eight two four signal, high pitch."

Moordryd adjusted the settings of his helmet, fine tuning the digital receptor, adding in the second feed so that he'd be able to hear Cain if he called in. "Got it?"

"Loud and clear," Penn said.

"So's that thing above us," Artha said as another explosion rattled the streets. Now that they were closer, the mag bursts shook everything around them. Glass lay on the sidewalk where windows had shattered.

"We're almost there," Penn said. "As long as the mid-level access ramp is still in one piece."

Connecting the levels of Dragon City meant either the long compression elevator tubes or the spiral ramps, streets that wound like corkscrews behind thick sheets of clear protective acrylics. To their relief, the ramp was still standing, if battered and bruised.

The crowd evacuating from the upper level screamed in unison as they saw the three of them barreling towards the ramp, but Penn easily leaped clear of all of them and Artha and Moordryd both managed to run their dragons along the edge where the floor met the wall, similar to the racing circuit.

Upon coming out, however, Moordryd brought Decepshun to a hard stop. Beside him, Penn and Artha did the same.

Not Armaggeddon, but almost as bad-the other warrior in red and black, with armor similar to his own, furiously blasted open huge rents in the surrounding walls and ceilings, magging rubble clear only to hurl it into the street.

"It's amazing no one's dead," Artha muttered.

Moordryd swallowed. If they weren't careful, they would be. His heart leaped into his throat as the warrior felt them coming close and turned, his glowing eyes burning into Moordryd.


	11. Chapter 11

With the warrior's eyes trained on her and her rider, Decepshun took one step back, ready to bolt, and rumbled deep in her chest. Looking around, she spotted three different ways she could dash between the buildings, reach the rooftops and disappear.

"Steady, girl..." Moordryd breathed, patting her side. "It's okay. We got one of them on our side now."

Beside them, towering over twice their size, the warrior Artha had called Mortis sat straight in his saddle and called out to the other rider.

"Drakkus!"

For a second, the red warrior turned his attention from Moordryd to Mortis. Even at this distance, Moordryd could see his glowing eyes narrow. He recognized that look. Cold calculation.

"I don't want to fight you," Mortis continued. "I know who you're looking for, and I know where he is."

Drakkus' eyes widened for an instant, then slowly he lowered his head, the same as a dragon lowering its horns to charge. Moordryd wondered how the man's eyes could show him every subtle emotion while the rest of his body was impossible to read. The armor was so like his own. Was that how he looked in the mirror?

"I should have known," Drakkus hissed. "You're always at the center of everything. Where is he?"

"Safe," Mortis said. "Avoiding Armeggadon...and you."

What? Moordryd blinked. Did Mortis mean him? Trying to act nonchalant, he looked up, but like Artha, Mortis' face was obscured by that annoying helmet. His eyes were hidden, leaving only a confident if grim smile.

Moordryd wished they could switch. His own mask left his emotions too obvious.

"You're going to get him killed," Drakkus snapped. "None of us are a match for Armeggadon, not as we are."

"You don't give us enough credit," Mortis said. "Especially Moordryd. He's better than you think."

"I will not stand here chatting," Drakkus said, eyes narrowing to dangerous slits and again focusing on Moordryd. "Shadow Booster! You're clearly aligned with this lot now, but I know you've had dealings with Moordryd Payne. Where is he?"

A dozen thoughts raced in Moordryd's head like miniature dragons. The ancient warrior was looking for him. Worse, these two ancient warriors seemed to know him well, at least well enough to argue his merits. And worst of all, Moordryd realized that he'd almost missed a vital clue.

Beau had hidden in plain sight as the Dragon of Legend, simply using different color to mask himself. Artha and Mortis shared the same helmet style, knew each other, and Mortis had appeared so quickly that he must have been at the house before they even saddled up.

Moordryd stared at Drakkus. Their helmet and armor styles were the same. Their mannerisms, if Moordryd was honest with himself, were similarly animalistic and ruthless. And with those two clues revealed, the last clue, Drakkus' voice, that vicious familiar voice dripping with scorn-

Ultimately it was the look in the warrior's damnably expressive eyes that told Moordryd everything. Looking up at him gave Moordryd the same feeling he had whenever he had the full attention of his wildly moody and critical father.

Suddenly facing Drakkus was far more terrible than if he was merely a powerful warrior. Drakkus shifted in his seat, bringing his dragon fully around, and the motion sent a spike of fear down Moordryd's spine.

"Run, girl!"

Decepshun needed no order. Fiercing leaning right, Moordryd turned her and hung on as she galloped down a tight alley, hugging the corners as she tried to avoid any lights and disappear into the gloom.

Their only advantage was speed. Both of them knew it. As Decepshun ran, leaping and stepping off the walls to manage sudden turns, Moordryd lay flat in the saddle, barely looking over his shoulder to see if Drakkus was behind them.

An explosion overhead destroyed a neon sign that nearly crashed on top of them. He crushed himself against the saddle, closing his eyes tight and trusting Decepshun to get them through. A hard swerve to the right, then hard left, and something heavy struck a glancing blow across his shoulder, scraping skin with it. He winced and held on tight, cringing at the shower of stones against his helmet.

Then they were clear and hurtling into a narrow pass. Moordryd let himself feel a surge of hope. There was no way Drakkus could fit his oversized dragon through here-Moordryd could have stretched out his hands and touched both walls.

Two mag bursts fired overhead, sending an avalanche of brick down in front of them. Moordryd looked up and spotted their escape route at the same he reined Decepshun up to the left. Without looking, she jumped blindly and almost missed the scaffolding hanging from the wall. She landed heavily on it, leaping against the far wall as the scaffolding crumbled her her weight, and then pushed as hard as she could to clear the roof.

The mag pulse caught her in mid-air, hitting her side and throwing her out into the open. She groaned in pain and Moordryd felt her tensing underneath him, bracing to hit the ground.

His mind whirled. He could do a mag-inversion, but she was in no condition to land at a gallop. With shaky hands, he summoned his own energy and performed a weak inversion, merely cushioning their fall. It felt like landing in a pile of mattresses, and Decepshun sank down, struggling to get back to her feet.

"Hide, girl!" Moordryd leaped off, not sparing a look back as he kept going on foot. He cursed at himself. This was starting to become a bad habit. The next fight, he promised himself, he would fight entirely from the saddle.

Where the hell was the stable brat and Mortis anyway? A shockwave through the street sent him stumbling to one knee. He looked over his shoulder and found Drakkus defending against a precisely aimed mag-fury from Mortis, who had taken a slower if less damaging route through the main street.

Drakkus looked from Mortis to Moordryd, then said something to his dragon and leaped from the saddle, leaving his dragon as a distraction and coming straight for Moordryd.

Awed by the man's prowess, Moordryd hefted his jak stick but only to block Drakkus' attack, already reeling from the first hit. Drakkus didn't even use a jak stick, slapping Moordryd's from his hands, landing a vicious palm strike against his chest and then roundhouse kicking him through a window.

Slamming into the far wall and then landing on the floor, Moordryd decided he was tired of being used as everyone's punching bag. Growling in rage, he painfully got to his feet and ran for Drakkus just as the warrior was stepping over the window sill. Drakkus looked up in surprise, no time to react as Moordryd caught him around the middle and tackled him backwards, then used him as a springboard to sommersault, grabbed him around the waist and used every bit of strength he had to throw Drakkus into the air.

His victory was short lived. Drakkus twisted and landed on his feet, coming back at him unbelievably fast. Moordryd blocked the first swing, dodged the second, ducked the third one too late and caught a fist on the side of his head.

He stumbled, and Drakkus spun and landed a kick behind his knees, but he gave Moordryd no time to fall. Drakkus grabbed Moordryd's throat and hauled him up against the wall, leaning hard to slowly strangle him.

"Where is he?" Drakkus snarled. "Where have you hidden Moordryd Payne?"

Moordryd grabbed Drakkus' arm, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat. He could barely keep his footing. Maybe if he held out, Artha would come...if he just held out...

"Where?" Drakkus screamed. "Or I'll snap your neck!"

There was no time. In another moment, he would pass out.

"It's me!" Moordryd ground out, struggling to speak at all. Letting go of Drakkus' arm, he blindly undid the amulet's clasp, letting it drop. As it did so, his armor and mask all vanished, leaving him vulnerable and revealed. The move almost cost him his life as he felt the full force of Drakkus' hand for an instant.

"...what?" Drakkus pulled back in shock, dropping Moordryd to the ground.

Moordryd landed on his feet, pressing back against the wall with deep breaths. If he was wrong, he would be dead, but he was sure of the man's identity now. "Yes...father."

Drakkus stared at him, ignoring Mortis who had finally caught up. He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even seem to breathe. But his eyes narrowed, two flaming sparks in the helmet's mask, and his hand clenched.

"What? But...why? How did you-?" His head turned down threateningly as he pieced together scraps of information from until now. "You have sided with them..."

Faced with his betrayal, any argument that Moordryd could have made died in his throat. Unable to force any words out, he nodded once.

"Foolish whelp-" Drakkus started, raising his hand to strike him.

"He's made his choice," Mortis said, jumping down from his dragon. He didn't come close for fear of spooking Drakkus into hitting Moordryd harder than the boy could survive. "He doesn't want a war."

"War is inevitable," Drakkus said firmly. "I see now that I neglected his training, if he's fallen in with the weaker element."

"He sent you on a merry chase," Mortis said as if that proved Moordryd was a match. "While injured."

Drakkus looked back at Moordryd, finally taking in the blood running down the boy's shoulders, the way he favored his leg. "You're hurt," he said uselessly, and just for a few seconds, actual concern touched his voice. "You must come back-"

"I can't," Moordryd said, trying to put as much force in his words as he could. "Not until this is done."

Drakkus slammed his fist into the wall next to Moordryd's head, satisfied at his flinch. "You'll be dead! Armeggadon will find you-the war will crush you if you aren't above it-"

"I'll kill Armeggadon and stop your war," Moordryd said, impressed with how he sounded like he believed that. "I'm not going back."

Drakkus' eyes flared like fire. "I will drag you back myself. If you don't have that amulet-"

"Even if you took the amulet," Moordryd said, a sick note of triumph in his voice, "Nannydrag would let me out. All your dragons would help me. Not you. Me."

With a hiss more animal than human, Drakkus backhanded Moordryd, knocking him first against the wall and then to the floor. Moordryd tasted blood, wiping it from his lips onto the back of his jacket, but he smiled despite the pain. Of course the dragons would take care of him. They'd raised him.

Beaten and on the floor, Moordryd still claimed a victory. He'd won. He knew he'd won.

Drakkus tilted his head, acceding the point, but with no sense of defeat. In fact, he looked as menacing and darkly sarcastic as usual.

"Very well, then," he said far too softly. "I shall see to comfortable arrangements for when you do return, and when I bring you back..."

His hand shot out again, pushing Moordryd against the wall on his wounded shoulder until his son gasped in pain. At the door, Mortis raised his hand with a cry.

"Not one more step," Drakkus snarled at Mortis, "or I will destroy this whole level before you can stop me."

Mortis hesitated, still ready to attack. "Put him down."

"He belongs to me," Drakkus said. "Even if he's grown insolent. And rest assured..." He turned his attention back to Moordryd. "...when I come for you a second time, there will be no escape."

Drakkus leaned in close, so close that Moordryd saw the outline of his face beneath the helmet, beneath the thin, dark sheet that magnified the eyes. Word's indignation was palpable, and he cringed on the inside as he remembered this warrior trying to kill him as he fought to claim his booster armor. It didn't matter if Word had known it was Moordryd then. He could all too easily imagine this man, snarling in hatred and anger, willingly destroying his own son.

And then he was dropped on the floor, and Drakkus stalked past Mortis, glaring in warning. Moordryd coughed as he watched him go, not understanding why the two didn't immediately fight but thankful that they didn't. He couldn't have survived even just escaping a fight between them.

He grabbed his amulet, sliding it back into place and armoring up again. There. As the Shadow Booster, he felt another layer between himself and the world, giving him the reassuring sense of hiding behind a shield, no matter how weak. Moordryd Payne was a weak, incompetent child, but the Shadow Booster was something out of legend. He needed his armor to face down this new threat. His father still meant to do him harm and he had precious little time to act.

"Moordryd," Mortis said, coming closer. "Are you all right?"

Pressing against the wall and pushing himself back to his feet, Moordryd groaned as his shoulder pulled against its wound. He shook his head. He was moving too slowly. Panic welled up in him.

"No time to worry about that," he said through gritted teeth. "Where's Decepshun?"

"She's fine," Mortis assured him. "Just tired. You should-"

"There's no time!" Moordryd repeated, ducking his outstretched him and staggering outside. The street was still empty while Drakkus magged back up onto his dragon, glaring at Moordryd once before turning and slowly moving away. "Decepshun! Where are you?"

His voice turned frantic and shrill before she appeared, limping and dragging her tail after her. There was no way he could leap on her back, not in this condition. He cut away the straps that held the saddle in place and let it slide to the ground, falling to his knees as he typed in a string of commands on the communications unit.

"Moordryd?" Mortis asked, coming up beside him. "What is it?"

"Come on, come on," Moordryd whispered, willing the call to patch through faster. "I have to call her, warn her-she's got to get out of there now."

"Who?" Mortis said.

"My-yes!" Moordryd crowed in triumph as the screen flashed an image of an older dragon nestled around several eggs. From the symbol on the wall above her head, she was clearly in Word Payne's citadel, one of his nursing stables. "Mare, Mare, can you hear me? It's me, Moordryd!"

The dragon raised her head. Her scales, once black, had gone gray with age, and she shook her head around a few times as she woke. She cooed softly at him, rustling her wings.

Mortis stared in shock. Dragons only cooed at their nestlings, never at humans.

"Listen," Moordryd said in a rush. "You have to get out of there. You're in danger."

She blinked, snorting in disbelief. Danger? In the citadel? Impossible.

"It's father," Moordryd said, and her expression changed to concern. "I think he's going to hurt you. He knows you...not just you, all of you, he knows you're closer to me than him. And...and I've done exactly what you told me not to do."

Moordryd lowered his head as she reared back, bellowing first at him, and then to the stable at large. There was a flurry of scales and tails as she roared again, and then she looked back at Moordryd. She called once more, no longer a coo but a harsh, questioning note.

"I'll be fine," he said with all the exasperation of a child embarrassed by his mother's concern. "You're the one in danger. He was going to drag me back, and I told him that you'd let me go if he did."

Her displeasure was clear as she settled back, her head held high, hissing as her tail rattled. With a snap of her jaws, she nosed the screen in front of her, shutting it off.

Moordryd put his hand flat on the screen, breathing out. She knew. Whatever happened now, at least she was warned. And she knew what to do. Of that, he had every confidence. Mare always knew what to do.

"Who is she?" Mortis asked once more, gently putting his hand on Moordryd's good shoulder.

"My nannydrag," Moordryd said. "She's the one that raised me when my mother died."

Mortis nodded as if he understood, but what he'd seen went beyond a normal nannydrag's reaction. Small dragons were used to care for children only in that they herded them away from danger and kept them amused. This "Mare" was a full sized black, a normal dragon in a stable no less, and she clearly interacted with Moordryd on a much higher level.

"I see," Mortis mused. "I never knew that Word had gone that far. Dragons raising a human child..."

"And yet you keep saying we're equal," Moordryd snapped, starting to rise up to his feet.

Mortis stiffened. There were many responses he could give—that dragons tended to nip their young, which would leave a cruel bruise or even deep bites on a human child without scales just being one-but Moordryd was in shock. This was not the time to press him.

"Come on," he said gently, trying to coax him into following. "You can ride with Artha. I'll carry Decepshun and-"

"No!" Moordryd shot up and backed away. "No, I can't. He knows where I am now. It's not safe."

"You will be," Mortis promised. "Your father is the real reason for my security system. Even he won't try to attack-"

"He will," Moordryd said, stepping back again. "You've never lived with him-when he gets an idea in his head-"

Mortis tried to say that yes, he had, and he knew all too well what Word could be like, but Moordryd wasn't listening. They both looked up when they heard Artha and Beau thundering towards them, a pack of wraith dragons still dogging his heels and doing their best to slow him down.

While his head was turned, there was a blast of smoke that blinded Mortis for just a moment. There was a whispered "you'll be safer here, girl", and then silence. He coughed as the smoke dissipated, already knowing that Moordryd would be gone. To his surprise, the boy had left his dragon behind, although she didn't look as upset by that as he'd thought she would.

"Hey," Artha called, finally smacking aside the last wraith as he drew near. "Where's Moordryd?"

"Run off," Mortis said. "I don't know where. I'm afraid he and his father know each other's secret now."

"I can imagine how that went," Artha grimaced. "He left Decepshun?"

Mortis nodded. "If nothing else, we know he trusts us. He'd never leave her here if he didn't."

"Did he say where he was going?" Artha asked, leaning down to talk from Beau's back. "He usually likes to boast about what he's got planned."

"It wasn't like that," Mortis said. "Not this time. His father wants him back and Word warned him that he'd be coming for him soon. It spooked Moordryd so bad that he ran."

Artha winced. "Ouch. Well, I guess if he's on foot, that'll make him easier to find."

"Do you think you can?" Mortis asked. "He knows the underlevels far better than we do."

"I'll find him," Artha said. "I always do. Besides..." He tapped his gauntlet. "I think this'll help. There's some kind of resonance between the two of us, probably from the first human dragon war. We felt it way back when we fought Armeggadon."

Mortis nodded. "I hope you're right. Find him if you can, but don't stay out after nightfall. I don't want you alone."

"Man, next you'll be saying it's a school night," Artha laughed.

In the next moment, he grew serious. After using the gauntlet for so long, he'd started to develop a sense for how it worked. As long as Moordryd was wearing his Shadow armor, he felt confident he could locate him. Placing his hand on the gauntlet, he formed an image of Moordryd in his mind, shaping him from memory into a surprisingly clear picture.

He quirked a smile. He didn't realize how well he knew Moordryd, but he held him perfectly in his thoughts-the arrogant lift of his head, the folded arms, the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The sly tilt of his eyes, the way he seemed to grow taller when he was sure of himself...Artha frowned. And the way Moordryd collapsed in on himself when he was shaken. The picture in his head was so clear that he could practically hear him scolding to "hurry up, stable brat."

As if they were in the middle of a fight, Artha knew instinctively where to turn to find him. He turned Beau and prodded him to go.

"Down into the lower levels," he said. "He's trying to hide in the engineering sector."

Which called for a slow and careful glide from the street ledge, curling around and around in graceful circles as Beau maneuvered in the thermal currents rising from the hot levels below. Artha held onto him, letting him fly, and marveled that Moordryd could move so fast when he wanted.

Probably has a bunch of secret routes only he knows about, Artha thought.

But even so, for him to vanish so quickly... Artha wondered what Moordryd would be like when they finally caught up to him. Lashing out in a panic? That wasn't so bad-he was sure he could calm him down. But if Moordryd was running out of cold calculation, he'd be hard pressed to convince him to come back.

The city rumbled around him. Just the engines, he told himself, growing louder as they drew close. Certainly not Armeggadon. He told himself that as they glided into the dark fog and smoldering ashes swirling in the air, steeling himself as the giant flywheels of the great mechanisms powering the city came into view.


	12. Chapter 12

Down...down...Artha narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the thick smog. It was impossible to guide his dragon, even with his enhanced visor, and he had to trust Beau to take him through the darkness safely. Beau tilted his body, easily soaring past the giant gears turning the engines, some of them over a hundred feet tall. The air rumbled with the groans and shrieks of steel against steel, as if each wheel was a huge dragon, all of them straining at the leash.

Sparks showered down on them from somewhere out of sight, and the heat grew unbearable for an instant, then faded again. Grey fumes poured out of the black pipes jutting into the air at odd angles, and somehow Beau managed to get them both past the superheated exhaust ports without being scorched.

The great furnace lay within the center of these lower levels, the heart of Dragon City as it fed off of the molten blood of earth, part of the volcano that Pyrrah's Dragon Flares lived in. The magma's glow cast dark light and even darker shadows, and they flew through a black smog with red light.

Finally they landed on the metal platforms holding up the engines. Giant support beams linked everything, wheels, engines, platforms and the elevators leading to the upper levels. Artha looked up, awed by how huge and empty these levels were. Most of the space was filled with nothing but smoke, giving the gears enough room to turn around the broad engines.

"I kinda wish I had Moordryd's helmet," Artha said, coughing once. "This smog is awful."

Beau whuffed an agreement, grimacing at the black grime accumulated on the floor. At Artha's urging, he started across the platform, digging his claws into the steel so that he didn't slip on the shiny black soot.

Moordryd was down here, Artha knew it. He was a little worried he'd see the Shadow Booster sprawled on the floor. Moordryd had been hurt and he might have lost control of his fall, but Artha followed his instincts and felt heartened by the lack of blood or signs of a fight. It was also entirely possible that Armeggaddon might come looking for them down here, especially if he'd seen the fight above. With all the rumbling gears, it would be impossible to hear even eight dragons coming.

Still, dangerous as it was, he could understand why Moordryd decided to hide down here. He looked up high at the tiny dots of lights moving along the walls. Each one was a person holding a lantern, no more than a speck that faded in and out of the smog. There were thousands of workers down here, greasing the machines and replacing old gears, but in the deep space, they were all but impossible to see.

And so likewise, there was no one to see him and plenty of places to hole up. Most of the nooks and crannies were between belts and pistons, all of them flying at a deadly pace, but if one was brave enough to crawl in amongst the steel and polyweaves, there was ample room and little light. Moordryd could hide from city security for weeks if he had to.

But he couldn't hide from Artha. The golden armor felt the pull, the sympathetic call from the dark armor, and Artha unerringly pointed their way through shadows so thick that they couldn't see, past the furnaces where the orange flames roared to life every minute as new magma was pumped in, to the relatively quiet space of the giant axles holding the flywheels. Artha craned his neck, but the immense gear towered so high above him that he couldn't see the top. They walked along the barren floor, coming to the huge rod that turned the gears.

In all the darkness and grime, the flash of white hair was easy to spot. Beau padded over the rod and up to the gear, one of few that had been oiled enough to turn quietly, and settled at Moordryd's side.

Artha stared at him for a moment. Selfish as it was, he couldn't help feeling a touch of relief that Moordryd was curled up, shoulders hunched, head down, resting his arms on one knee while his other leg curled underneath him. A depressed Payne was easier to handle than an angry one. His eyes were shut, but Artha was sure that Moordryd heard them. Even better, that Moordryd heard them and didn't leave.

"Go away, stable brat," Moordryd groaned, sounding infinitely tired. "I'm in no mood for this."

"For what?" Artha asked as he jumped off Beau. "I'm not here to fight."

"No," Moordryd grumbled. "You're here to take me back."

"I hope so," Artha agreed. "If you don't wanna go, it'd be hard to force you up there. And you might be safer down here anyway."

Moordryd sighed and turned his head. "Hardly. You don't know my father. He'll turn everything upside down until he gets me."

"So you're gonna hide until he does?" Artha asked.

From the corner of his eye, Moordryd glared at him. "Maybe."

Artha sat down next to him, resting against the tall support beam behind them. With a sigh, he let his armor fade and ran his hand through his hair, pushing a few stray strands out of his face. Moordryd never took his eyes off of him, except to let his gaze flit over to Beau for just a second, making sure the dragon only meant to lie down and keep guard.

"So..." Artha started again. "You know who Drakkus is now."

"And you already knew?" Moordryd growled. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know for sure," Artha said, waving one hand. "I just figured, y'know, since dad's Mortis and you're Shadow Booster, it just made sense. But I never asked dad. I mean...I dunno. I'm...I guess I don't want to ask."

Moordryd didn't look at him. "Why? He yell if you do?"

"No, Artha sighed. "Worse. 'You aren't ready for those answers', that's what I always hear."

Moordryd gave a bitter chuckle. "Scales, I hate that. 'You're not ready. Keep training.'"

"...yeah." Artha chuckled. "You know what's screwed up? You remember that fire? When everyone thought dad died?"

"Yeah," Moordryd said, not bothering to mention that had been his fault. "He really fooled father, too."

"And me."

Moordryd frowned and looked at him. "Wait, what?"

"He didn't tell me he was alive," Artha said. "I thought he was dead for ages."

"But you-" Moordryd started, then paused, not sure what he meant. "But he...what was he doing?"

"He came to me and Lance as Mortis," Artha said. "In that armor you saw. Said he was a Dragon Priest. Whcih is true, but...we didn't know it was him for a long time. I sometimes think the only reason he told us was because he was hurt in that fight with your dad."

Moordryd frowned. "You mean...when I got my gauntlet? Wait, it was that long before-!"

"Yeah..." Artha said, lowering his head. "To help my 'training'."

Moordryd considered that, turning over the thought of losing his father and gaining a trainer. He laughed once, choked down his laughter, then grinned wearily and lowered his head.

"What's so funny?" Artha snapped.

"It's kind of the same," Moordryd said. "You and me. You lost your dad and got a priest. I lost my dad...and I got Armegaddon."

All of Artha's anger went out of him. At least he knew his father loved him, even if the way he went about showing it was painful. But Moordryd...

"He hit you pretty hard, huh?" Artha said, nodding at the fresh bruise on Moordryd's face, the blood drying on his cheek.

Moordryd didn't answer.

"Would...would your father reallly lock you up in the tower?"

Moordryd nodded. At first Artha didn't think he was going to reply further, and he wracked his brain trying to think of something else to say to keep the conversation going.

"He's done it a couple times before," Moordryd said. "But that was when those different companies were trying to kidnap or kill me. He let me out as soon as I could prove I could race."

"You..." Artha blinked. That opened up so many questions that he wasn't sure where to start. Kidnapping? Attempted murder? But maybe that was to be expected with all of Word's enemies. What really stood out to him was...

"You were training your whole life?" he whispered.

Moordryd looked up. "Yeah. When I could ride and fight like he wanted, he let me out on the circuit. Cain helped me take over the Dragon Eyes crew."

Artha fell silent. He'd barely trained at all, despising having to work with dragons, feed dragons, scrape dragon scales, clean out dragon stalls, exercise dragons... And from the way Moordryd talked about it, he'd lived with dragons his whole life, maybe even more closely. Artha gave a silent apology to Beau, remembering all the angry mutters he'd made over the years as he worked.

"So you always knew you wanted to ride?" Artha asked softly.

"Kind of." Moordryd half-shrugged. "Father expected it. I just want to make him proud."

Moordryd didn't seem to catch his own slip, but Artha did, and he winced. Not "wanted" to make him proud. "Want" to make him proud, but there was no way that Moordryd could ever make Word happy. The man's expectations were insane, even if he didn't want to start a world war.

Falling silent for a moment, Artha leaned back and watched wheels turn around them. Funny how the smog seemed to float higher and higher, forming a black layer of clouds above them and leaving the air fairly breathable here. No wonder Moordryd had come down this deep.

"Do you think you can hide here forever?"

Moordryd curled up a little tighter, refusing to look at him.

"As big as this place is," Artha said, "it's actually kind of empty. You'd have to go out for food sometime."

Mutteirng something that sounded like "I'd rather starve," Moordryd turned away.

"We don't have to go back to my place," Artha offered. "There's gotta be places even in the Down City levels where you can hide."

"With a dragon?" Moordryd snapped. "Not likely."

"But you don't have Decepshun with you now."

That seemed to sting much more than talking about Word had. Moordryd groaned and leaned back, looking absolutely worn out.

"...Decepshun did look pretty hurt," Artha said, using her as bait. "She'd probably like having you there."

Moordryd opened to argue, shut it. Thought of something, then sighed and shook his head.

"She's better off without me," Moordryd said. "This is stupid. Father's going to start this war, I can't stop him-"

"We can-" Artha tried.

"-and trying to protect me is only going to get her hurt," Moordryd said. He growled in frustration, snarling much like the dragons did when they were annoyed, and slammed his fist against the floor. "This is ridiculous. I should go home and beg father to forgive me."

And yet he didn't move. Artha held absolutely still, afraid that Moordryd would stand up and try to walk away, but he only sighed and let his head fall forward, still refusing to look at Artha.

Long minutes passed before Artha realized that the exhaustion, stress and pain had finally caught up to Moordryd and he'd passed out. He gently touched his shoulder, making Moordryd wince in his sleep, but the other boy didn't wake up. When Artha drew back his hand, his fingertips were covered in blood.

"I don't think he's gonna wake up soon," Artha whispered to Beau. "Got my medkit?"

Beau nodded and quietly came close, lowering his head so that Artha could dig out the small plastic case in the saddle. Popping it open sounded horribly loud, but only because they were used to the long, slow groans of the flywheels around them, not a tiny, bubbly pop. He set out the bandages, antiseptics and clothes generally used for bad cases of road rash or the lacerations made by a dragon's claws, hoping that Word hadn't broken Moordryd, at least not worse than usual.

When Moordryd woke, he found himself lying against Artha's shoulder. Had he fallen asleep like that? He didn't think he would have let himself lower his guard so much, not even if stable brat was his ally now. As he sat up, shocked at how sore he was, he felt the familiar rise-fall rhythm of a dragon's flanks behind him. Fighting a massive crick in his neck, he looked over his shoulder and found Beau staring back at him.

"Did we all go to sleep?" he mumbled.

Beau shook his head with a proud grin.

"So you've been keeping watch," Moordryd said, anticipating Beau's nod. "Have we been out a couple hours?"

Beau nodded vigorously. At least a couple hours. And at his gentle nudge, Moordryd looked down at himself and found the wrappings on his shoulder, felt one around his waist. He raised his shirt, surprised that the stable brat had bothered to work around it rather than simply cutting it off, and saw that Artha had cut through the leg of one of his trousers, wrapping a nasty bruise that crept over the edges of the bandages. A faint red stain had started to appear in the middle of the white gauze.

"Great," Moordryd sighed. "I owe him one."

As he lay back down, he found more than just Beau as his pillow. Artha's arm lay behind him, slightly curled as if the stable brat had fallen asleep with Moordryd in one arm. Moordryd rose an eyebrow. He certainly hadn't been awake for that. He glanced at Beau, who quickly turned his head and made the whuff-whuff noises that passed for a dragon trying to whistle innocently.

Curiouser and curiouser. Moordryd lay back down, then on a whim turned on his side and sidled up against Artha, resting his head on the boy's shoulder more thoroughly. Just so he didn't get the horrible crick in his neck again, of course. And if Artha turned ever so slightly in his sleep, putting his other arm over Moordryd's waist, then that gave him food for much more thought.

His head was fuzzy from the fight, from his father and from the pain. So much of his body throbbed if he moved, and he relaxed against Artha and Beau's scales. And what if Artha turned out to be like Moordryd, girlfriendless for a reason? Kitt Won had been with him for months, and yet there was nothing in their relationship beyond a kind of adopted sibling rivalry. Artha was a top racer, good looking, wealthy...he should have had a string of girlfriends by now.

And yet, just like Moordryd, nothing.

Moordryd frowned. He didn't think there was anything between Artha and the Egghead. Just like there was nothing between himself and Cain. Nothing like what Rancyd and Blare had.

He made himself stop thinking about it. He could've gone in circles all night if he wanted, but he needed to sleep, and he'd find out how Artha leaned later when they woke up in each other's arms. If Artha reacted poorly, then he could fake that they'd just curled closer in their sleep and nothing else. If Artha reacted favorably...

...then what? Artha was the Dragon Loser, the damn stable brat, the kid who always ruined his plans, the only one now who could beat him in a races. The only rival he really had, an equal and a comrade. The only person who cared to come this far to find him. And Artha was a top racer, good looking and wealthy.

Moordryd let his hand fall on the bandage on his waist. And he was kind hearted enough to patch him up. No one had done that before.

Stop thinking about it! he told himself firmly, meaning it this time. Time enough to worry when he woke up. He closed his eyes, blanked his thoughts, and didn't notice when he fell asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

Surrounded by the familiar drone of the monstrous fly wheels, Moordryd woke up not knowing why he'd opened his eyes. The air was still, save for the rumbling engines. No padding of dragon feet, no workers yelling that they'd spotted the boys. Beau's heartbeat thumped softly under his head, distinct from Decepshun's but reassuring in its own way, and Artha...

Ah. Artha wasn't breathing deep or fidgeting at all. So that's why he'd woken up. Moordryd toyed with the idea of feigning sleep a little longer, but he was impatient by nature. He couldn't lie around, no matter how comfortable he found the other boy's arm around his waist, waiting around to see what Artha would do.

"I know you're awake," Moordryd sighed, not surprised when the stable brat pushed backwards, sliding away from him and moving several feet away. Languidly he turned, looking at Artha over his shoulder. "Something wrong?"

"I...I...I...sorry!" Artha said as he stood. "I didn't mean to do that. I've never done that before. Geez. Sorry."

"'Never'?" Moordryd chuckled. "Not even when you were sleeping next to Kit?"

"Huh?"

The clueless look on Artha's face made Moordryd laugh, but he still lowered his head in frustration. Artha acted as if he'd never touched another person, let alone another boy. Holding him had probably just been stable brat's instinct, innocently drawing closer like a puppy.

"Figures," Moordryd sighed to himself. There was no need to press. Let it pass as an awkward moment. "Nevermind. No harm done."

There were plenty of other things to worry about, after all. His shoulder had turned stiff overnight, refusing to move and flaring with pain when he tried to lift it. Broken? Sprained maybe. His knee refused to move smoothly either, twice wounded in almost as many days. Maybe Penn would know some trick to make him heal faster-

"Wait. You're not bothered by it?" Artha asked slowly, studying his reaction as if afraid Moordryd would turn and hit him with a jackstick. The panic was gone so fast that Moordryd wondered if it had been an act. "I was kind of hanging all over you, but—"

You were up so close against me, Moordryd wanted to say, that any closer and Beau could've picked us up with one mag charge.

"It's okay," Moordryd said, waving away his stuttering protests. "It's nothing."

Artha looked like he wanted to keep talking but didn't know how to continue. Not sure what Artha might say, Moordryd decided he'd rather put it off for later. He was staying at the stable brat's home, after all. Artha had plenty of time to figure out what to say. Moordryd wasn't sure if he wanted Artha to try. A war between Armeggadon and his father was hardly the place to try for romance.

Rising to his feet, Moordryd hopped a little on his good leg, favoring his wounded side as he limped, steadying himself. He brushed off the rust falling from the huge turning gears and leaned back, staring up at the vast distance they had to climb. Even with a dragon, the way to the upper levels was nigh impossible unless they took the elevators that traveled through the core support pillars, but then Dragon City Security would see them for sure.

Behind him, Artha frowned but put his confusion aside for the moment. Moordryd was behaving as standoffish as usual, and they needed to escape back to the higher levels without being seen. He had an idea for how to ascend, but it would require a little finesse.

"Looks like you get to ride Beau today," Artha said, checking Beau's armor and saddle. "Do me a favor and try not to smack a bone mark on him again."

Moordryd eyed Beau, weighing the sneaky gleam in the dragon's look. "You aren't gonna throw me off halfway up, are you?"

Beau snorted as if insulted, then turned and eased down on the floor, flicking his tail to invite Moordryd up. Not trusting Beau, Moordryd grumbled under his breath and took the opportunity to change into his armor, trusting that its added strength would help keep him from falling. Still unsure of the ride to come, he jumped onto the dragon's saddle, holding onto the small, raised pommel.

"Don't turn your head too fast," Moordryd muttered. "I can only hang on with one hand."

Behind him, Artha climbed up on Beau's back just above the dragon's hips, finding a good grip on his red thruster armor. A shame they couldn't simply share the saddle again, but Beau needed their weight equally spread over himself for the jumps he would have to make. Artha couldn't hold him as before, and Beau would need his concentration for the mag bursts he'd have to perform. Moordryd would have to hold on and trust the dragon not to accidentally throw him off.

Then Beau crouched, tensed and leaped up the slowly turning flywheel, running along the edge, and Moordryd shut his eyes as the darkness and vast cavern blurred around him.

Much like a tower, Dragon City was built in levels, and the engineering section was easily the biggest and emptiest, providing most of the power as the wheels moved. Above them, gleaming a dark red, was the lower level where the homeless and lost dwelled, living in the empty apartments long since abandoned by the rest of the city. Moordryd knew Kitt had come from that level, clawing her way out of the trash heap by becoming a solo racer, inadvertently joining Artha's stable team.

Then came the level the security forces had taken for themselves as a massive headquarters and prison, and above that was the gloomy undercity lit only by neon signs and the dim glare through the haze.

Finally above that was the level Moordryd had called home for many years, the towers that rose above the twilight, where he was raised first by his mother and then by his nannydrag. He focused on the feeling of rising, that the great power underneath him was taking him somewhere safe. It made the jarring, jolting ride a little easier, even though his teeth felt like they were coming loose.

He dared open his eye for a moment. Beau had stretched his mag energy into a thin line to an anchor high above, distant and unseen. Then, leaping from one gear to another, Beau slowly worked his way, using the mag line as both a compass and a way of pulling himself higher.

Nothing like Decepshun's swift and easy steps; she didn't power through obstacles the way Beau did. She would have taken the elevator, blending with the shadows as they skittered up between the struts guiding the lift wires. None of Beau's leaping, slamming onto a gear and catching himself, leaping again...

But they would have emerged at the same time, he begrudgingly admitted as they came out through one of the vent shafts that led to the lower levels. Beau was the dragon of legend and his power matched her speed. Still, that the two were equals swelled his pride in her. Decepshun was the only pure black dragon in the world, empowered by the spirit of a great warrior before her. Not written about in legends, perhaps, but capable of rivaling Beau in every way that mattered.

The run through the lower levels, climbing the maintenance supports that ran alongside the vast girders holding the levels together, was smoother. No sudden drops or jumps. As soon as Beau fell into a steady gallop, Moordryd felt Artha come up behind him, settling in the saddle.

"He won't get tired with both of us?" Moordryd asked.

As soon as the question left his mouth, he knew it was stupid. Beau was sheer muscle. The real question was did he even notice Moordryd's added weight? Artha wasn't musclebound like Fistus, but-

"Are you kidding?" Artha chuckled. "If you ditched your armor, I think Beau would think you disappeared."

Tempted to make a crack about Artha's weight, Moordryd let it go without reply. Artha followed suit, silently taking the saddle in one hand to guide Beau while holding Moordryd securely with the other.

The ride took too long, leaving them out in the open, and it didn't take long enough. Moordryd wanted more time to think when they finally came to the right level, carefully making their way through back alleys and dark streets. When they arrived, there would be questions and more questions, and where Penn would want to know why Moordryd ran, Artha would want to know why he came back.

Finally they were close to Penn Stables, which meant roads where the streetlamps were properly kept up and made sneaking in impossible. As Beau circled around, trying to find a discreet way in, Moordryd rolled his eyes and fired several quick, quiet magbursts, popping each lamp.

"Oh, real nice," Artha grumbled sarcastically. "No one'll notice one road going dark."

"Sorry," Moordryd said in the same tone. "Here, I'll fix it."

"Wait no no no-"

A few more mag bursts hit the power boxes that he could see, plunging the whole sector into darkness. Roads in all directions lost power and signs, lights. Even the ambient light from the rest of the level seemed to fade. Beau gave a disapproving snort but ran the rest of the way through the darkness, slinking through the front gate of the stables and nudging it with his tail until it clicked shut. The sand of his home stable was soft and familiar under his claws, and Beau trotted to his usual berth.

"What'd you do that for?" Artha demanded.

"Streets go dark all the time," Moordryd said as if it was obvious.

"No, they don't," Artha said. "Not unless there's a dragon thief knocking them out."

"Oh, I knew you would go there," Moordryd said, glaring over his shoulder. "I am not responsible for all the dragon thefts in the city, you know."

"No, I wouldn't know," Artha said. "You're the only one I ever had to deal with."

When Beau came at last to his stable, the dragon knelt so that they could jump off. Artha went first, meaning to turn and catch Moordryd only to find the other boy already sliding down, leaning back against Beau so he didn't fall.

"Will you ever just let me help you?" Artha sighed, putting his arm around Moordryd and ignoring the other boy's muttered cursing. "I don't get it. You don't let me help, but you're perfectly okay if we were all over each oth-"

"Finally!"

Both Artha and Beau froze while Moordryd scrabbled at his hip for a jack stick that wasn't there. Behind them, Connor Penn came up, still dressed in his own armor, and behind him they spotted the lighted windows and Lance watching from inside.

"Artha, why didn't you call?" Penn asked, his worry beginning to turn to anger. "It's been almost two days and there's been another attack."

"What?" Artha gasped, looking around to make sure the arena wasn't on fire.

"It was my fault," Moordryd said quickly, his shoulders cringing slightly. "Stable brat promised not to call you. I...I would've taken off again if he had. Is Decepshun all right?"

An obvious subject shift. Penn frowned, but he didn't argue. Even before now, Moordryd's relationship with Word had always been antagonistic, hiding his cheats and manipulating his father just as much as Word manipulated his son. Running and hiding was merely one more thing Word had taught him to do, where Artha was more inclined to face his problems honestly. Penn wondered if he should try to break Moordryd of that deceptive behavior or hope that it would be of some use in the future.

"She's fine, just had the wind knocked out of her," Penn said. "But we have bigger problems than that. Armeggadon struck the Academy. Can you ride?"

"I can," Artha started. "But Moordryd-"

"Yes," Moordryd said over him, continuing when Artha tried to argue. "I don't have to walk if Decepshun is okay. A couple pain killers and I can keep up."

"Artha, go make sure Lance won't follow us and come back with the pills from my desk." Penn moved to take Moordryd's arm, guiding him to his dragon's stable. "I need to talk to him for a moment."

"Dad—but-" Artha stammered, then huffed and went inside.

"He's gonna think you're heartless, you know," Moordryd said, leaning on Penn until they reached the stable and he could open the door for his dragon.

She slid between them, nuzzling Moordryd in welcome before magging him onto her back, and he slid his feet into the stirrups, locking them in place. Now he wouldn't fall out of the saddle even if he wanted to. He tightened his hands on the saddle, readjusting them and not managing to feel comfortable. Being locked in wasn't always a good thing. If one of Amegaddon's dragon slammed into him, he'd probably tear in half.

"We can't always go into a fight fully charged," Penn said. "I've been in battle while wounded many times before. Artha will just have to learn."

"Practical," Moordryd said. "So, what do you need us to steal?"

Penn blinked in surprise, then chuckled once to himself. "Of course. How did you realize?"

"If the academy was attacked," Moordryd reasoned. "Then they'd evacuate. City security would be all over it. We're not hearing any explosions—Armeggadon must've left then. So tower is empty but it isn't safe anymore. You need something from inside, probably before anyone gets it, especially Armeggadon or my father."

Moordryd glanced at the far wall where Penn's dragon was stabled. "But your dragon can't fit into the academy."

"The academy was shaken badly," Penn said, nodding. "And you won't be the only ones trying, I'm sure. I'll run distraction for you, but the Mechanists and others will be searching for whatever they can grab."

"And what are we searching for?" Moordryd asked.

"The Fire Gauntlet," Penn said.

"What?" Moordryd whispered.

"I don't have time to go into it now," Penn said. "Suffice to say, Sentrus hasn't been completely honest with me."

"Great," Moordryd said, and Decepshun turned a circle as she felt his nervousness. "I'll bet anything that tower isn't completely evacuated, then."

Moordyd wanted to ask more questions, but by then Artha was coming back, jumping up on Beau while simultaneously tossing him the bottle of pills. Moordryd took a double dose and put the rest in his saddle bag. He had a feeling he'd be needing more before the night was out.

"Kitt and Parm are already on their way," Penn called out to his son. "And I'll meet you there soon. It's just going to take longer for us."

Scales, Moordryd thought, but maybe he could turn this into a very drac opportunity. A chance to run wild through the Academy, stealing anything he could get his hands on? As Decepshun followed Beau into a gallop, he began typing out a message to Cain and the rest of his crew. If any Dragon Eye were brave enough, there were prime treasures to be salvaged from this.


	14. Chapter 14

Dozens of towers surrounded the Academy, giving Artha and Moordryd plenty of cover as they came in close. Their dragons raced at top speed, darting from shadow to shadow, but they saw no trace of Armeggadon or Word, though they saw several Dragon City security teams cordoning off the inferno of the Academy.

In the shadowy recesses of an alley, Decepshun slid to a stop and took a cautious step, leaning to the very edge of the glow of the streetlamps. On her head, Moordryd scanned the flashing lights of the security dragons and looked for gaps in their ring around the tower.

"Wow," Artha murmured as Beau drew close to Decepshun. "The Academy's wrecked."

Moordryd followed Artha's look up and spotted smoke billowing from some of the windows, several holes crushed out of the walls with piles of rubble lying on the street. Blood splattered the pavement where people had been struck, but the injured had been evacuated already.

Injured or dead, Moordryd thought. He shook his head and gave Decepshun a nudge.

"What do you think, girl?" he asked. "And we need a way in that these two can take."

Decepshun glanced at Beau, who gave her a confused grumble. Then with a chuckle, she smacked the back of his legs with her tail and turned around, using a dumpster behind them to jump up onto a ledge, then climbed higher to the roof. Beau followed behind and didn't see her stop in time, bumping against her flank so that she bit at him.

"Whoa," Artha said, shying away from her fangs. "Relax—it was an accident!"

"Just watch where you're going," Moordryd snapped. "If we were on the edge, you could've pushed us off."

"I'm not used to all this sneaking around," Artha said. "Can we just go in already?"

"We have to get into the right position." Moordryd pointed at the Academy, gesturing at one of the larger holes ripped along the wall. "We'll go first, make sure it's clear for you to land. So try not to go charging in so that everyone sees you."

"Wait," Artha said, raising his hand as if to stop him as Decepshun backed up a few steps. "You shouldn't go first—you're still hurt—"

Ignoring him, Decepshun sprinted across the roof and leaped from the edge, soaring through open air like an arrow. She landed on the smoldering carpet, small plumes of ashes rising up from a gaping hole in the floor, and the orange glow from beneath revealed a steadily burning fire gaining strength on the floors below.

"Mm, not much time to work," Moordryd said. "Decepshun, better get us out of the way. I don't want us anywhere near where stable brat lands."

Whuffing in agreement, she slipped through the corridor, easing away from little flames licking up along the walls and sliding around other breaks in the floor. They knew from experience how fast fire spread, and she spread her claws out, feeling for reinforced spots that would still hold her weight.

"If I had a Fire Gauntlet," Moordryd mused, "where would I hide it?"

Someplace no one would look, obviously. But with the whole academy to search and no time before the flames devoured everything, there was a real chance that the gauntlet itself would be lost. There were too many places to check.

A heavy thud rattled the floor, sending up thin plumes of smoke from the floorboards. Twisting around, Moordryd narrowed his eyes as he stood up in the saddle.

"There's just no soft landings with you, is there?" he hissed. "Try not to shake the place down around us!"

"Hey, it's still standing," Artha protested.

"For now," Moordryd said, settling in his seat again. "Any ideas? If we have to hunt for it, we won't find it in time."

"Well, it's a gauntlet, right?" Artha and Beau came up alongside them, pressing against the wall where the floor was stronger. "Maybe _it'll_ call to _us_."

"Brilliant," Moordryd sighed, waving his hand dismissively. "And you'll summon it how?"

The moment he asked, Moordryd realized how, and when he faced Artha again, he saw the same recognition in the other boy's eyes. There was no time to waste. He leaned far to his right, stretching out his arm, and Artha did the same so that their gauntlet's touched.

They both braced themselves, and a moment passed. The last time they'd pressed the gauntlets together, a flash of insight had shown them the past, a vision of the Shadow Booster fighting alongside the original Dragon Booster and rider of legend. That vision had been swift and overwhelming, a shock to both of them.

This time, however, the gauntlets grew warm, then hot, so that Moordryd began to squirm. He glanced up at Artha, who didn't flinch, and Moordryd took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he was sure would be burning pain.

Instead there was a flash of light that forced him to look away, grabbing onto Decepshun's saddle to steady himself. He heard Artha yell something, felt the floor rumble as Beau ran down the hall and around a corner.

"Come on," Artha called over their communicator. "I think I know where it is!"

"Ow...sure, gimme a second."

Moordryd ran his hand over his eyes, blinking away the stars left behind by the flash. He gave Decepshun a nudge, but she took only a few steps and stopped again, more comfortable near an exit.

"Don't want to explore a burning wreck, huh girl?" Moordryd chuckled. "Hey stable brat, did that light blind you as bad as it did me?"

"'Light'?" Artha echoed. "I didn't get a flash. I saw a room further down...at least it feels like it's further down. It's like I can feel exactly where it is."

"Then you probably can," Moordryd said. "I'm gonna check up here."

"Huh? But—"

Switching his helmet communicator's frequency, he shot a quick ping to any Dragon Eyes in the area. To his satisfaction, another ping returned. Cain was somewhere in the tower, probably with Blarre and Rancydd. He didn't receive a verbal reply, and he didn't expect one. Better not to distract each other during such danger.

Moordryd shut off the communicator and looked around himself again. His armor and his dragon's energy protected them from the heat that was no doubt unbearable otherwise, but fire curtained the doorways around him. They'd only have time to search one or two rooms before Academy started to give way.

"Your guess is as good as mine," he said, patting Decepshun's neck. "But I'll bet there's something up here that we want. What do you think, girl?"

She whuffed, coughing out a mouthful of smoke, then turned and sprung through the door at her shoulder. Moordryd spent a moment spraying energy around the room, choking the thickest flames, and scanned the shelves as the fire began to creep back in. Rows and rows of books, most of them already singed or blackened, all of them smoking as the heat alone began to catch them on fire. The only window had shattered so that wind sucked out the smoke, accompanied by a hollow howl that reminded Moordryd of just how high they were and how far the tower would fall.

"Looks like we're in part of the library," he said, magging one of the shelves out of the way. Burned pages fluttered around them. He felt his heart twist—he'd wanted to steal books from here a dozen times, but there'd never been a chance to see what was on the shelves, never been _time_...

And there still wasn't time. Both of them began magging things away from the walls, throwing furniture to the floor, ripping paintings and tapestries in half. When they didn't see anything, Decepshun whipped her tail against the interior wall, and a thick crack streaked several feet across the stone.

"A secret front," Moordryd said appreciatively, sliding off of her back. "Good girl."

A solid magburst punched through the weakened stone, and Moordryd stepped through, waving away the dense cloud of dust that followed. The orange flames behind him threw his shadow across the dust, and he lit a small spark of energy at his fingertips to see by.

The hidden room he walked into held a bowl of incense, long gone cold, and a blue gauntlet, its amulet sitting inside the upturned palm.

"Oh, Sentrus," Moordryd said with a growing smile, "you've been holding out on us."

"Can you blame me?"

Moordryd was enough of a thief to grab the gauntlet even as he whirled around, finding the tall academy scout behind him, but Moordryd relaxed when he saw how she stooped, her robes burned, blood streaking her face. She kept one hand tightly clutched around a pile of books, her other hand wrapped around her waist as if she'd been wounded.

"Shadow Booster," she snarled, coughing out smoke. "I should have known you were behind this."

He shrugged, but he knew she wouldn't believe him. "For what it's worth, this wasn't me."

He tossed the gauntlet to Decepshun, who magged the gauntlet into her saddle compartment.

"There's no point hanging around," he said to Sentrus. "Let me get you out of here."

"As if I'd take you at your word," she hissed, already backing away. "Fine, steal the gauntlet. It will do you no good. It can't be worn."

He didn't stop her, watching her vanish back into the smoky hall. If he'd tried to force her, she probably would have put a knife into his side. She'd been coming to gather the gauntlet before she escaped. It was only his luck that she'd been too hurt to fight.

The was a blast of burning debris that crashed around the door, followed by the floor rumbling and dropping an inch. Feeling his stomach lurch with it, Moordryd leaped up onto Decepshun's saddle.

"Our way out's cut off," he said. "Let's make another."

He threw a magburst against the window, blowing out part of the wall. Stones and steel beams tumbled outward, cascading out of sight, and books tumbled out with it. Decepshun stepped up to the gaping hole, trying to pick her path out while half-blinded by the ashes blowing down.

Moordryd took one last look over his shoulder. It was a shame to see the library destroyed. He bit his lip, knowing there was no time, and yet—

He reached out his own hand, allowed the gauntlet to power up, and _pulled_.

A book landed in his palm. Then a second. He actually saw the third one fly off the floor, tumbling open against his fingertips. Amazed that the trick had worked, he quickly clutched the books against his chest as the floor tilted again.

This time the floor kept tilting. Decepshun squawked—there was no more time to choose a route. She didn't jump but rather slid down along the outer wall. The tower shuddered and groaned as the metal supports began to twist, softened by the fire so that they could no longer hold the floors above. The outer wall broke with long cracks and huge sections falling to the street, and Decepshun leaped from jagged edge to melted steel, shrieking as sharp steel scorched her paws.

Moordryd winced with each hard landing, gasping when she jumped again. Smoke poured down heavily around them like a cloud of red ash, and between the hot embers, he spotted flashes of the city lights, the waving police spotlights trying to find him in the darkness. Everything blurred as he clung to her saddle with all his strength, felt the crackle of Decepshun's energy as she shot out a fragment of steel over a story tall, following it into freefall.

Moordryd shut his eyes—he trusted her, all he could do was trust her—and then cried out as they came to a teeth-jarring stop. He looked up. The steel fragment that Decepshun had blasted free had fallen across the burning tower and the debris of the nearest billboard. Even as the sign's thin struts buckled under their weight, Decepshun leaped to the street, landing on a city security dragon and bowling it over in her escape.

"Don't stop!" Moordryd whooped, covering their tail with a burst of energy as she streaked by the rest of city security and off the side of the road. They plunged down to the next city level, landing on a restaurant rooftop and leaping off again, vanishing into the darkness of the poorer, unlit alleys.

Taking shelter in a lightless culvert, Decepshun slowed and came to a halt, flopping over on her side. Moordryd sat straight, looking down the drain pipe both ways. It was one of the Dragon Eye tunnels, but it never paid to be careless. He waited several seconds, making sure they were alone and that no one was coming down the distant street, then turned on his communicator again.

"—scales! Where are you?!"

Moordryd winced. Artha sounded nearly as angry as his father. "Not in the tower anymore. We're clear."

"Don't turn off your comm again!" Wherever he was, Artha breathed hard between coughs. "If you'd gotten into trouble, I couldn't have come after you!"

"Relax, stable brat." Moordryd rolled his eyes at Decepshun, who whuffed a laugh even as she licked at her sore paws. "We're both fine. How'd you make out?"

There was a grumble, but Artha answered despite himself. "I got the fire gauntlet. I'm on my way back home. What about you?"

"I picked up a surprise for you," Moordryd said. "I'll show you when we get back. Be there soon."

As Artha signed off, Moordryd changed frequencies again and pinged his crew. A moment passed.

While he waited, he looked at the books he'd saved. The edges were singed and the pages had yellowed and turned dry, but the books had survived intact.

"So let's see what the gauntlet saved," Moordryd murmured, grimacing as the blackened cover crumbled under his fingertips. "A Treatise on the Philosophy of Balance. Symbiosis: the Tragedy of Psionics. Empire of Shadow..."

Promising hints, but he didn't have time to look at them in any depth. He set them into Decepshun's saddle compartment, locking them in safely, then removed his amulet. Warm air blew in from the street, bringing in the scent of burned ash.

"Dragon Eyes reporting in." Cain's voice, thin and distant, crackled on the communicator. "Repeat, Dragon Eyes reporting in."

"Good to hear you," Moordryd replied, breathing out in relief. "Everyone all right?"

"We got out safe," Cain said. "Made out with some nice gear, too. Better than what we have on the race circuit."

"Be careful with it," Moordryd warned him. "Academy grade gear is more powerful than you're used to."

"No kidding," Cain said. "I already rocket boosted myself through a wall. You coming back to the crew?"

"Not tonight," Moordryd said. "Gotta rendezvous back with stable brat."

"Ooh, a rendezvous," Cain drawled out. "That really does explain all the time you're spending there."

"Get scraped," Moordryd said, switching frequencies again as Cain chuckled.

With a grumble, Decepshun came back to her feet, shaking herself and stretching. Moordryd patted her nose with a few comforting murmurs.

"I promise," he said, "when we get back, I'll get this saddle off of you and give you my draconi-yum bars."

That brought a happy growl from deep in her chest. Taking the tunnels, they stayed off the streets, going still every time they heard heavy dragon steps above them. In the silence, Moordryd grew increasingly aware of how isolated they were, and that they had no idea where Armeggadon was. Or his father. He couldn't tell Cain that he wasn't going back to his crew's headquarters mainly because he wanted powerful allies at his back. His crew may have been his friends, but a Artha and Conner Penn were a much better bet against the monsters in the city looking for him.

Finally arriving at the Penn stables brought a wave of relief. The sand of the arena was dark, but along the side lay the dragon pens, each glowing brightly as if to welcome him back with Artha washing ash from Beau's scales. And beside them, Kitt and Parmon with their dragons, looking worn out but smiling as they fed Cyrano and Wyldfyr.

"Rotten Payne," Artha said as he came close, but there was no anger in his voice. "Glad to see you're in one piece."

Moordryd smiled back, then slid down off of Decepshun's saddle and walked up to them. Standing straight, feeling a growing pride at being able to offer them something real, he revealed the Energy Gauntlet he'd stolen out from under Sentrus. In their rush to surround him, jostling against him with Artha's arm around his shoulders, he finally found no trace of suspicion in their looks.

But he did not mention the books he'd saved.


	15. Chapter 15

The four of them were a tight circle of nervous energy. Parmon opened his hand, revealing the power amulet he'd found with Kitt. Artha brought out the fire gauntlet from inside his saddle. With the gauntlet of energy in Moordryd's hand, they all looked up and realized at the same moment.

"We have all of them," Kitt whispered.

"The gauntlets...and the amulets..." Parmon said. His head shot up in sharp excitement and he shared a wide-eyed look with Kitt, realization dawning on their faces. "And the amulets! Why, we could transform right now!"

"Drac!" Lance put his hand on Moordryd's, pulling the energy gauntlet closer to his face. "Let's do it."

As if suddenly splashed with cold water, the four teens suddenly stood straight. Moordryd snatched the gauntlet out of Lance's reach, holding it over the boy's head when Lance jumped, and beside them, Artha put his hand on Lance's head, forcing him to keep his feet on the ground.

"Oh no you don't," Artha said, and he grimaced as Lance grabbed his wrist and tried to give him a friction burn. "There's no way I'm letting my little brother fight Armeggadon."

"No fair hogging all the fun!" Lance pouted, glaring around Artha's hand. "I fought with you a ton of times. I even stopped Moordryd sometimes."

A growl more draconian than human came out of Moordryd, who gave Lance a swift smack on the back of his helmet.

"I don't hit as hard as Armeggadon," Moordryd snapped. "Besides, you shouldn't want to do this. None of us wanna fight."

The contradiction made Lance stop and tilt his head. "Huh?"

"I couldn't have said it better myself." Coming across the sand, Connor Penn stepped into the space they made for him in their circle. He nodded in satisfaction at what he saw, patting both Parmon and Kitt on the shoulder.

"You should both be proud of yourselves," he said, drawing from each beaming grins. "You survived the wastelands and even navigated an ancient ruin filled with traps and who knows what else had found its way in. I knew you could do it."

"It was right on the map," Kitt said, shrugging in false modesty. "Piece of draconi-yum cake."

"Aside from the blooms of poisonous drac-orchids," Parmon said. "And getting lost and going circles twice. And how it took three times to unlock the gate because we had the puzzle tablet upside down-"

Kitt's elbow knocked into his ribs, making him cough. He met her look and smiled sheepishly.

"Um. Yes," Parmon nodded once. "Cake, indeed."

Connor chuckled, then looked back at the gauntlets. "But I'm afraid no one's transforming just yet. I want to take these artifacts down to the sanctum and make sure they won't overload and surge the wearer."

"'Surge'?" Kitt echoed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, they're built to channel a large burst of energy," he explained. "But they're also really old. Ancient. It's entirely possible in all the time they've lain dormant, something might have corroded or decayed inside them. And then you put on the gauntlet, channel all that power...and instead of conducting it like lighting, suddenly you're a lightning _rod_."

Moordryd blinked. "That can happen?"

"Oh yes." Connor nodded once. "They're really like battery packs. It takes a lot of power to summon the armor. And left alone for thousands of years...you're lucky you weren't burned."

Moordryd grimaced.

"So...we can't try 'em out yet?" Kitt sighed, giving Parmon a dirty look as he whispered 'I told you so.'

"Not yet," Connor said, but at seeing all of their crestfallen faces, he exhaled. "You can try them on. After I check them out. Not until then!"

Lance came over to his side and looked up. "I can try one on, too, right?"

"No," Connor said, and this time he didn't give in. "Artha's right. You don't belong in a fight in this war."

"But you need everyone-" Lance tried.

"Riders," Connor said sternly. "Not a child. And you are still a child."

Pouting, Lance looked at all their faces, hoping someone would speak for him. When none of them did, he folded his arms and kicked sand at Artha's foot.

"Not fair," he muttered. "I really did beat Moordryd and his crew a whole buncha times."

"Oh, for drac's sake," Moordryd growled, more annoyed at being the target of Lance's complaining than the reminders of his past defeats, and he grabbed Lance's helmet and turned it so that the boy had to look at him. "Everyone is soft on you. Don't you ever wonder why no one bowls you over in a race? Or why I never really cracked you one with my whip, even though I nailed Artha with it all the time?"

"I still owe you for those," Artha warned him, only half smiling. "That thing hurts."

"So?" Lance grumbled.

"So," Kitt said, kneeling down to his height. "The bad guys won't pull their punches. Armeggadon, he won't care that you're a kid."

"It's a war," Parmon said, wincing with each word. "And wars have...casualties."

"No one should wanna be in this fight," Moordryd said. "Scales, _I_ switched sides 'cause I saw what that'd really look like."

"We're only fighting 'cause we have to," Artha finished.

Lance stood there silently, glowering at the sand. His face screwed up tight until his emotion burst out of him.

"Why don't you ever let me help you!" And then he shot off back to their house, slamming the door hard that it echoed to the far end of the arena and back.

"Little brothers," Kitt sighed, standing and brushing sand off her knees. "What can you do?"

"Stuff him down a hydrag," Artha muttered.

"He'll calm down eventually," Connor said. "For now, you lot should go to sleep. You all have earned some rest, and examining these gauntlets will take time."

"Aww..." Parmon and Kitt exchanged a look and their shoulders sagged. "Can't we watch?"

Connor shook his head, but more in disbelief than disapproval. Even Artha and Moordryd looked eager to see the new booster armor, despite the drawn lines in Artha's face and the dark circles under Moordryd's eyes. Youngsters, he thought.

"Okay, come on and follow me," Connor said, "and we'll see if I can finish the examination in a few hours."

"Drac!" Kitt said, throwing her arms up in victory.

"'Hours'?" Parmon echoed, decidedly less happy at hearing that.

As Connor turned back toward his own dragon's den, clearly not intending to wait, the teenagers became a flurry of tending to their dragons, filling feed troughs with chow and undoing the saddles. Since Decepshun had already dumped her gear and curled up in her stable, Moordryd moved to help Artha with topping off Beau's water, then stretched the hose out and filled up Cyrano and Wyldfyre's water basins as well.

"Thanks," Kitt said, looking over her shoulder once as she scraped a rough patch on her dragon's flank. "Penn sure didn't waste any time waiting on us."

"I thought he'd argue more," Moordryd said.

"Oh, he doesn't do that as much now," Kitt said, rolling her eyes. "You haven't seen him and Artha get stubborn with each other. He's a lot more drac about letting us in on things than he was before."

Moordryd frowned skeptically—Artha's father didn't seem like the type to give into his sons' demands—but he didn't comment. He barely knew the man. He certainly couldn't imagine his own father being anything but stubborn, but maybe Artha's father was different.

Connor had left open the broad doors to his dragon's pen, and Artha waved them to follow him. Parmon and Kitt went ahead with Moordryd giving Decepshun one more pat before he ran after them. He paused at the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the empty stable, the single light glowing in what he guessed was Lance's room...then went in and closed the large doors, which locked automatically with a heavy clunk that startled him.

The others had already gone down a set of stairs that were long and wide enough to accommodate Penn's dragon. Lights dotted the edges, soft gold glows that dimmed as he descended. His steps echoed in what he realized, as his eyes adjusted, was a deep tunnel almost as vast as a cavern. Down several flights, bright monitors glowed along the far wall and, to his left, the massive dragon slept soundly on a pile of soft hay that took up a great swath of the floor.

Moordryd was struck by the similarity of this room to his father's private space in the Payne Citadel. Small monitors loomed overhead, circling a computing station covered in access ports. From the look of the screens already on, Penn could tap into whatever Dragon City Security was watching, while the largest central screen held a spectroanalysis diagram, its analysis subject blank and its numbers set to zero.

A wave of familiarity rushed over him, and Moordryd suddenly felt a chill run up his back. He couldn't see any other doors, no exits, nothing. His steps slowed, and he felt more and more that he was heading down into a cage. His shoulders bent as if he expected an attack, and he looked back up at the doors. Were they really locked? Could he run if he had to?

Grimacing, he looked down at Artha and his crew. They crowded around Penn, watching him set the gauntlets on a computing station, jostling each other as they watched the gauntlets hover slightly.

"What's it doing?" Kitt asked.

"It's an electrical wavelength," Parmon said, leaning closer. "It examines any charges or residue on the gauntlets while holding them in a magnetic sphere, basically isolating them to take a reading free of any interference."

She looked at him blankly.

Penn chuckled. "The computer just holds them up so I can get a clean reading. So don't touch."

The older man set the analysis program running, and the central monitor came to life with images of the two gauntlets. As their surface area was screened, their rough shape appeared next to numbers that kept precise count of how much of each gauntlet had been analyzed.

After half a minute, the count ticked forward to .00001 percent.

"...you meant it when you said this would take hours," Kitt said, sinking.

"Sorry," Penn said, smiling as he went to toss chow into his dragon's enclosure. "But that's the price we pay so you don't burn to a crisp. Are you sure you don't want to go upstairs to bed? Time'll go faster if you sleep."

"Heck no am I leaving," she said. She stood straight and commandeered a rough dragon blanket off the wall. "I'm not letting that gauntlet out of my sight. Floor ain't too good for me."

"Likewise," Parmon said, rolling up his own blanket to serve as a pillow. "Not very comfortable, but...I want to be here as soon as they're done."

"Sounds good to me." Artha stretched, rubbing a knot out of his shoulder, and caught a glimpse of Moordryd still on the staircase. The other boy was sitting on the last step, staring at the floor and hugging himself as if cold.

"Be right back..." Artha murmured.

Neither Parmon nor Kitt heard him, absorbed in their own conversation of what their armor might look like and what their attacks would be. He left them to their talk and instead walked quietly to Moordryd's side, watching him with a small frown.

"You okay?" Artha asked.

"I..." Moordryd half shrugged as if something irritating clung to his shoulder. "I don't know. I don't like it down here, that's all."

"Too closed in?" Artha nodded once in understanding. "Yeah, I used to hate it. I don't like feeling like the ceiling's gonna fall on me."

Moordryd shook his head. "No, it isn't that. If I was afraid of tight spaces, I wouldn't have lasted very long stealing dragons. The vents and tunnels between levels can get really cramped."

"Huh," Artha said. "Is it being down here with us? I guess being surrounded by the crew you used to throw around on the track is a little rough."

This time Moordryd rolled his eyes and relaxed back against the stairs. "Oh please. I threw around my own crew after Cain's little mutiny. No, it's not that...but it's definitely something."

"Oh, well, that narrows it down," Artha said, rolling his eyes as he plopped down on the step next to him. "Is it the huge dragon? The glowing computers? The echo that just will not stop-"

"...that's it." Moordryd stared at the computing station, the curved row of monitors of different sizes, all of them displaying streets at odd camera angles, diagrams of the gauntlets and other schematics he didn't recognize. "It's the computers. It's the whole set up."

"Really?" Artha tilted his head.

Moordryd signed and slumped down again. "It looks like my father's citadel."

Artha winced. What could he say to that? Sorry to remind you about the father you might have to kill?

"...I'm gonna go sleep outside again." Moordryd stood, one hand on the wall as he came to his feet. "If the door isn't locked."

"Wait." Artha reached out and grabbed Moordryd's wrist. "Don't. You shouldn't be alone."

"Decepshun's right there-"

"That's not what I meant," Artha said, keeping his grip. "You've had a rough few days and you shouldn't have to bed down in a dark stable by yourself. You should stay down here with us."

Moordryd almost argued that at least the mini-brat was upstairs. Or that his own crew was there for him. The arguments died in his throat. Cain controlled the Dragon Eyes more than he did, and Lance wanted his company...about as much as Moordryd wanted company at all.

"Look, stable brat, I get what you're doing, but we both know I'm not really part of this crew. I don't..." Moordryd grumbled and tried to tug his hand back, but it was like tug of war against a tenacious dragon cub.

"Okay, so you're still a Dragon Eyes," Artha said. "But you're also the Shadow Booster. And you're fighting Armeggadon. That makes you part of this crew by default."

"Did you ask the other boosters that?" Moordryd snapped.

"Didn't have to," Artha said, his smile returning. "We hashed that out when you came into hear about the Booster history, and now Kitt and Parm are totally drac with it."

An overstatement, but Moordryd didn't argue as Artha pulled him away from the stairs and to the growing pile of dragon blankets. He took the last one and spread it out at the edge, on the other side of Artha, and turned his back to the monitors. At least if he didn't see the screens, he didn't have to think about his father.

And this blanket pile brought back happier feelings from his days sitting under his nannydrag's watchful eye, playing or climbing her tail or reading in the corner of her stable. Even the dragon scent from Penn's mount made the room feel safer.

"Light's out," Connor warned them.

The cave lights flicked off suddenly, and only as his eyes adjusted did Moordryd realize that the computer monitors had dimmed to their lowest setting. From above, a single light at the doorway continued to glow brightly, but at such an angle that little of its glow trickled down at all.

More by sound than sight, Moordryd made out Connor Penn's silhouette as he sat down at the computer and leaned back, stretching and relaxing as the numbers slowly ticked. After all this time searching, no doubt Artha's father wanted to keep close to the gauntlets. Did they he suspect Moordryd might try to steal them? Or maybe he worried that Parmon and Kitt might try to activate them too early.

"This cave certainly turns gloomy fast," Parmon whispered.

"I think he wants us to go to sleep," Kitt said, yawning despite herself. "Scales, I didn't know I was this tired..."

"I wouldn't mind some sleep," Artha said as he settled down on his blanket. "Unless you wanna tell ghost stories? I know one about the dragon with hooks for claws-"

"No ghost stories," Parmon said quickly, his voice a pitch higher as shook his head. "Perhaps the sensible thing to do is try to sleep. We were out in the wastelands for days and you two just braved a burning tower. We must be too exhausted for ghost stories."

"Yup, dead tired," Moordryd said, and he withdrew a pen light from his pocket, casting a tiny glow around the floor. "Which means I'm too wired to knock out."

To Parmon's rising horror, Moordryd lowered his voice, whispering as he began his story. "So...on a night just like tonight...after the racing was done, the last straggling pair of dragon riders on the street circuit heard this strange tapping on the pavement, like dragon claws only...metallic..."

"Oh, you know it, too," Artha chuckled, whispering to follow suit. "And the dragon riders were curious and started following it, spurring their dragons on as the tapping stayed just out of sight."

"And an eerie voice echoed on the wind," Moordryd said, "where is my golden brake gear?"

"Sleeping now!" Parmon flopped onto his blanket and pulled his makeshift pillow over his head.

"You guys are mean," Kitt laughed, scooting closer to the light and taking up part of Artha's blanket. "You said it was a ghost story, but everyone knows the golden brake hooks story is true."

She winked, then looked over at Parmon, grinning. Moordryd's eyes lit up as he realized what she meant.

"I've never seen anything," he said, "but my crew refuses to head anywhere near the main circuit when it gets dark. Cain swears he's heard metal tapping when his mom gets off of work."

"Sometimes," Artha added, "when I'm patrolling, I see little flashes of gold gear disappearing around the corner. I tried to follow it, but even Beau couldn't keep up."

They couldn't make out Parmon's answering grumble, but his blanket lit up from underneath as he pulled out his wrist console and did a quick search.

"Ha! Dragon with the Golden Hooks, folklore file fifty-seven. It _so_ isn't true." With that, the light went off and Parmon curled up again.

"Aw, no fair looking it up," Moordryd sighed. "We should've brought minibrat down here."

"Huh," Kitt murmured, waiting for Parmon to say something else and hearing nothing. "Guess he's really conking out after all."

"I don't blame him," Artha said and yawned. "I wanna get some sleep, too."

He gave a few token nudges of his legs against hers, but she either didn't feel him or didn't care to move out of his way. With a huff, he scooted partway onto Moordryd's blanket and hoped the other boy wouldn't mind.

"How can you sleep?" She looked over her shoulder again at the gauntlet and sighed at the readout. ".0009 percent. That's just so wrong."

"We can sleep," Artha said, his voice muffled in his own pillow. "Because we went through a burning tower."

"And it's not like it's our gauntlets up there," Moordryd said. "We're used to changing."

"Yeah..." She slowly turned her head, her gaze on the gauntlet as long as possible until she had to move her eyes to see him. "Hey, what's it like, turning into a booster?"

Artha mumbled something they couldn't make out, turning his back on her and pulling Moordryd's blanket a little closer.

"Aw, you can't be that tired," she muttered. "Seriously, does it feel weird? It doesn't hurt, does it?"

"Absolute pain the first time," Moordryd said.

He leaned back a few inches so the light barely reached him, making her lean closer to see him in the gloom. In low tones, almost hushed as he recalled the transformation, his gaze turned distant and haunted.

"I just remember the shadows swallowing everything so the world went black," he said. "And I was so cold, it felt like ice covering me up. I couldn't breathe and it felt like the armor would pull me apart. It hurt so bad but I couldn't even scream."

Moordryd could just make out the dark blur of Artha lifting his head, listening silently. Kitt sat absolutely enthralled, her eyes widening with each detail. Her jaw slowly dropped and her fingers turned white as she gripped the edge of the blanket.

"Really?" she whispered.

"Not really," Moordryd said in the same haunted voice. "It just lifts you up and suddenly you're wearing armor."

She frowned, trying to reconcile what he said with how he'd said it. "Wait a sec..."

"It doesn't hurt, Kitt," Artha said, a smile grin on his face as she snorted. "He's teasing you."

"No, really, totally gonna light on fire," Moordryd couldn't keep his face straight. "Whoosh!"

"You rotten pain in the scales," she said, turning and retreating to her own blanket against. At hearing the snickering from the supposedly asleep Parmon, she smacked his side and flopped down to sleep.

"Finally," Artha breathed, stretching back onto his own side. "Hey, could you put out the light?"

"Huh?" Moordryd pulled the pen light under his bedding, muffling the glow. "Sure. Better?"

Artha mumbled something affirmative before his breathing turned even. Moordryd listened for several seconds. The room became awkwardly silent, with every little whir of the computer or scuff of the dragon's tail sounding loud and insistent. He turned on his stomach and unfurled the rolled up blanket he'd meant for a pillow, throwing it over himself instead and pulling it up well past his head.

Under the thick cloth, the pen light was nearly invisible. He brought out the smallest of the books he'd saved from the Academy library, _Empire of Shadow_ , and opened the cover.

A sketch of the shadow amulet adorned the front page, and as he passed over the next few pages, the Dragon Eyes symbol was drawn decorating banners, shields and dragon gear. The shadow amulet was linked to the old empire, and the old empire was linked to his crew.

 _First among the twelve empires,_ the book began, _though the other empires dispute this, built upon a foundation of symbiosis through black draconium, the Shadow empire reigns supreme through guile and subterfuge._

"Twelve empires," he whispered to himself. "And twelve crews..."

He skimmed back and forth along the pages, finding a rough map of all the empires. He frowned, unable to tell where any of them lined up with the modern cities, and wondered how much the world had changed since them. There didn't seem to be any wastelands during the time of the ancient empires. What had happened to cause the cataclysm that would isolate all the dragon cities?

_Although the other empires envy the link between Shadow dragons and riders, no other dragon can establish the beneficent mental connection without the influence of pure black draconium. This connection is not to be confused with that of the orange dragon, who creates not a connection but a chain, trapping the rider mental slavery and wasting the potential of such a union. It is the symbiosis of both, the dragon and rider in perfect symbiosis, that allows for the creation of one perfect soldier._

Moordryd blinked. That had to be awkward, treating the dragon and rider as one. How did they tell who was in charge? Were they like him and Decepshun, slipping into an easy give-and-take as they took the lead depending on who was best able at the moment? Or was it...?

He yawned, this time so hard that it hurt, and he clicked off his pen light and shoved both book and light under the blanket. Whuffing a sigh much like Decepshun did when she was worn out, he put his arms around the pillow and relaxed into the rough fabric, so tired that the hard floor felt comfortable enough as he fell asleep.


	16. Chapter 16

Footsteps.

Moordryd woke, but he didn't move.

Someone was walking down the stairs, stepping quietly as they tried not to wake anyone.

In the darkness, Moordryd's eyes slowly acclimated to the faint light coming from the monitors. The computers still whirred and counted the percentages of the gauntlets. Except for the gray glow around the screens, the room was filled with silhouettes.

Artha breathed softly beside him. Somehow as they slept, Artha had shifted so that he lay half on top of Moordryd, tangling both of their legs in the blanket. At least Moordryd still lay on his side, comfortable despite the stone beneath him. And he could feel the rumbling of Penn's dragon as it snored, sending little vibrations though the floor.

If Moordryd listened hard, he could hear Kitt and Parmon as well. Then who had he heard walking around? Maybe Connor had gotten up for some reason and was trying not to wake anyone else.

Maybe.

The footsteps skirted around the edge of the room, blindly feeling for anything in the way.

Moordryd cursed that he didn't have his gear with him. A simple jackstick, his whip, anything... Should he wake Artha? No. He didn't think stable brat could wake up quietly. Moordryd waited for the steps to come close, tensing in case he was attacked...and the steps kept going, shuffling once against the stone floor.

He's heading for the gauntlets, Moordryd realized.

And he froze as fear paralyzed him. Armeggadon, he thought. It had to be. His breath hitched as he thought that Armeggadon might be in side, only a few feet away, intent on stealing the gauntlets to create new boosters that would obey him, Armeggadon ready to cut them apart while they slept...

...and then Armeggadon tripped over the fallen blankets and hit the floor, yelping loud enough to make the dragon startle up.

Moordryd blinked. No. Not who he thought it was. And as the blankets behind him shifted as Artha and the crew woke, Moordryd was already sitting up, sliding his hand along the floor to find his penlight.

"Mini-brat," he growled, "I swear I'm gonna feed you to your own dragon!"

In the darkness, the footsteps suddenly darted for the monitors. Moordryd could barely make out a hand falling on the nearest one and then sprinting for the gauntlet. Finally Moordryd found his flashlight bunched up in the saddle blanket and turned it on. The slender beam swept up the stairs and touched the heels of familiar blue and black shoes as they escaped.

"What happened?" Artha said, coming to his feet. "Moordryd-"

"Mini-brat just grabbed a gauntlet!" Moordryd was already heading up the stairs. "Where's your father?"

"I don't know!" Artha said, following right behind him. "I thought he was down here with us!"

Behind them, Parm and Kitt tangled up in each other's blankets as they struggled to stand, finding that in their sleep they'd curled closer for warmth. While Kitt muttered several drowsy curses, she eventually flung Parm off and stumbled toward the stairs, Parm hopping after her as he put on his second shoe.

The door flew open, briefly revealing Lance's silhouette as he held a gauntlet clutched against his chest. Then he moved out of sight, leaving the glare of the gold stable lights in Moordryd's eyes.

"Lance!" Artha yelled. "Get back here!"

They came out onto the arena sand, and Moordryd skidded to a stop as he looked around. Beside him, though, Artha kept going, grabbing his shoulder briely as he ran by.

"This way," Artha said. "Around the stables!"

Moordryd cursed under his breath and followed. The arena was deceptively plain, with so much of the open area disguising the L-shaped dragon stalls that any visitor would easily overlook. Even after breaking in a couple of times, Moordryd didn't know the actual layout of Penn's home. Disabling security and sneaking along the edge of the arena couldn't give him the same kind of knowledge as someone who'd lived here.

As they came around the corner, they found Lance at the very end of the row of stalls. Here the stables were all empty, the Penn dragons sold off to new riders before the start of the next racing season. The lights were all out and the neon advertisements from the streets above didn't reach here, but the circle of Moordryd's penlight swung around and caught Lance just as he snapped the gauntlet over his wrist.

Lance grimaced as the gauntlet slid off his hand, too large to fit, and he went to his knees and slid it over his wrist again, holding up his hand so it wouldn't fall off again.

"Drop it!" Artha said, lunging toward him, arms out.

From years of living with his brother, Lance instinctively leaned back, letting Artha fly by him. As Artha landed in a heap, Lance stood up and backed away as he pulled the amulet from his pocket.

"You can't catch me," Lance sing-songed, and he smacked the amulet into the gauntlet's matching groove.

Wisps of electricity sparked over the gauntlet, playing along the edges of the amulet, and then the whole gauntlet lit up as if powered by a battery. Much like the Shadow and Dragon booster in the throes of their transformation, Lance rose several inches into the air, held aloft and tipped back.

"Whoa," Lance gasped. "Cool..."

"The amulet," Moordryd said, reaching out toward him. "It's starting to-"

The air around Lance sizzled with arcing static, and Moordryd pulled back as a powerful shock cracked against his palm. Hissing, Moordryd looked down and found an angry red welt across his skin.

"Scales," Moordryd said, holding his hand against his side. "Don't go near him."

"But he's in the middle of that," Artha said, watching from the other side of Lance. "We have to get him out of there."

As if he couldn't hear them, Lance closed his eyes. "What should I say? Release the dragon? No, no, Moordryd says unleash...um, unleash the energy? No, that sounds stupid..."

"This is taking too long," Artha said, trying to reach out and wincing as static popped at his fingers. "It shouldn't take this long."

"Maybe the gauntlet's busted," Moordryd said. "Or it's 'cause he's so little?"

"I got it!" Lance said suddenly. "Release the lightning!"

The metal of the gauntlet turned white as blue sparks played over Lance, suddenly defining the sphere around him in visible electrical surges. The sphere began to shrink, growing tighter and tighter, and still Lance didn't look up, expecting to feel armor form around him any moment.

Instead the surface of the field struck him, and he went completely rigid as he started to scream. The light engulfed him and he became a dark blue silhouette held helpless in burning energy.

"Lance!"

"We can't get near him," Moordryd said, backing toward Artha. "What do we do?"

Artha reached for him only to be thrown back by a sharp snap of lightning, stumbling against the wall. He shared a glance at Moordryd, and they both nodded and activated their own gauntlets, transforming into their booster armor. Accompanied by Lance's cries, the instantaneous change felt like it took ages.

Transforming didn't grant them sudden insight to save Lance, but neither hesitated to reach for him, again forced back. Their armor only safeguarded them from burns, the lightning shooting wildly across the smooth plating.

Artha looked around as if he might find the answer lying on the ground. His gaze fell on Moordryd's gauntlet.

"Hold up your arm," he said, raising his forearm. "Like when we first fought together. Maybe it'll show us what to do."

Too stunned by Lance's screams, Moordryd managed to mimic Artha's motion even if he didn't understand. As soon as as the gauntlets touched, an image unfolded in their minds' eye-the Energy Booster of ancient legend caught in a similar feedback loop, held rigid in a trap of the gauntlet's own making, and the Fire Booster beside her, her red gear somehow manipulating the energy like draconium.

The vision faded. Artha took a deep breath, then put his hands out the same way the ancient Fire Booster had done, reaching out as if it wasn't electricity but Beau's draconium energy.

The lightning surrounding Lance began to ripple, responding to Artha's efforts. The sphere's edge wavered and began to break apart, revealing glimpses of white and blue armor. And then the lightning began to creep up Artha's arms, smoking along the joints of his own armor.

"I don't think..." Artha grimaced, his legs starting to buckle. "Don't think I'm as good at this as she was."

Moordryd reacted, bringing up his own hands and following Artha's lead. The Energy gauntlet's lightning was nothing like Decepshun's draconium, slipping through his fingers instead of readily coalescing. He seemed to do worse than Artha, only managing to lessen the flow against the golden armor.

Somewhere in the arena came a bright red flare, followed swiftly by green. Neither of them could turn from trying to lift the lightning off of Lance, forced to focus on the bursts of energy trying to jolt them through their armor. Moordryd saw black streaks shooting across Artha's arms and shoulders, scorched increasingly higher and higher, and he winced as he stepped closer, trying to shield Artha from some of the electrical waves.

And then all at once the energy field stopped shooting wildly. The blue streaks of lightning smoothed into an even sphere around Lance, and the white light began to fade.

Artha swayed, going to one knee, and Moordryd knelt and put an arm around him. Holding him straight, Moordryd kept one hand toward Lance, relieved to see Artha still doing the same. When he looked up, Moordryd was suddenly glad for the full face plate of his helmet.

Kitt would never have let him live it down if she saw him gasp.

The red flare had been her transformation into the Fire Booster, and a blazing flame flowed up behind her, glowing darkly. Her own hands lay on the surface of the energy field, and the lightning flowed at her touch, rushing around her so that the sand blew away around them. Beside her, the green Power Booster lent his own help, bracing her so the energy wouldn't force her back.

Surrounded by all four Boosters, Lance finally stopped yelling. The energy field finally began to fade, revealing white and blue armor wrapped around Lance, and then the light vanished completely and the Energy Booster lay panting on the sand.

Moordryd breathed out, then stumbled over as Artha completely fell against him.

"Stable brat," Moordryd grunted, "either it's your or your armor, but something''s gotta lose weight."

No reply. Moordryd shifted so that he was holding Artha and lifted the visor. Red burns scarred his friend's face, branching out like small lightning bolts.

"Stable brat?" Moordryd put his hand on Artha's amulet, then hesitated. What if the armor was keeping him alive like it had kept Moordryd alive before? "Wake up..."

A few last crackles sparked along the Energy booster armor. Moaning, Lance turned on his hands and knees, sitting up with a loud sigh. The armor was similar to Artha's, only with white plates and blue joint accents that visibly pulsed with a neon glow. His helmet wrapped around like Moordryd's but with a transparent faceplate like Artha's.

"Is he...?" Parmon asked. He knelt by Lance and looked over him, peering through the faceplate. "He's breathing, but...oh my..."

"Is anyone hurt?" Connor came up behind Kitt and Parmon, taking in who was standing and who was unconscious. "Oh no...Moordryd, can you take Artha back down? I have a medical station there."

"Sure." Moordryd put his arms under Artha, intending to carry him, and he managed to rise halfway before his arms began to tremble. As he sank back down, Kitt came around and caught him enough to help him gently back to the ground.

"Um..." Moordryd huffed. "Maybe not. Feel like I'm gonna shake myself apart, actually."

"Sir," Parmon said, waving toward Lance. "I think you should look at this."

"I realized already," Connor said, exhaling as if a thousand pounds had landed on his back. "But Lance isn't in danger yet and Artha and Moordryd are hurt."

"I'll take Artha," Parmon said, coming toward them. When he lifted Artha off the ground, Moordryd boggled at how easily Parmon simply cradled the other boy, carrying him as if he weight no more than his hand computer. So the Power Booster armor wasn't simply a name.

"Then I got the Payne," Kitt said without any heat to her voice. "Don't think I can give you a comfy ride, though."

Kitt braced herself, putting Moordryd's arm over her shoulders before she stood. His weight plus the armor was not insubstantial, but he managed to gather his legs under himself as she moved.

"I can walk," he assured her, but he didn't try to pull away. "Just not straight. Gimme a sec..."

He slipped the amulet out of his gauntlet, releasing the armor from around himself. Immediately he and Kitt both sighed in relief as the weight lessened.

Before they could pass Lance, however, Moordryd stopped. Lance was trying to stand, and Connor put out his hand, helping his son rise. Something was wrong. Lance wasn't screaming anymore, his armor looked fine and his face through the visor looked fine. Tired, but fine. So why did something feel wrong?

Kitt realized first, breathing in sharply. "Scales...he's as tall as me."

Moordryd blinked. That was it. Lance turned and, through the clear blue faceplate, looked him eye to eye.

"Oh, drac," Lance whispered. "Am...Am I older...?"

"I only hope," Connor said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "That you haven't lost those years completely."

Lance faced him, now only a tiny bit shorter than his father, and if Lance remembered any of the pain he'd just suffered, he didn't show it. Grinning broadly, he threw his fist up in the air and jumped.

"Now I can fight, too!" He popped up the faceplate, wanting to see everyone clearly. A smattering of freckles still covered his nose. "I'm not just a kid anymore."

He didn't understand why none of them were smiling or congratulating him. Connor stared at him as if he was mortally wounded, and Kitt didn't seem happy, not even now that she'd tried on her own Booster armor. And resting against her, Moordryd muttered a curse.

"What...what's wrong?" Lance's voice, changed only slightly, came softer. "I know I stole the gauntlet, but it now you've got five boosters, right?"

"Consideration of others is the first step away from childhood." Connor came around him and grabbed the shoulder of his armor, leading him so he couldn't run yet again. "Get downstairs, and above all, do not remove that gauntlet. I don't know what will happen if it comes off."

Lance's eyes widened, and he clamped his hand over the amulet as if it might suddenly fall out. The night seemed suddenly colder and darker as they left the stables.


	17. Chapter 17

Moordryd woke up on a floor. At first, he wondered why he didn't feel Decepshun behind him, and why the ground wasn't cold and the air didn't smell of dragon chow. Then someone shook his shoulder again, and he found himself in Artha's living room, the gloom of daylight in the window.

"Think you can handle coffee?" Kitt murmured.

"Only one way to find out," he said as softly, taking the offered mug. "Thanks. Did he wake up?"

Kitt glanced at Artha, asleep on the sofa beneath a blanket. Red burns peeked out from underneath the bandages and the faint scent of burn cream lingered in the air.

"A couple times," she said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. "Just long enough for a drink. Good thing he was wearing his armor. Didn't have to scrub sand out of his skin."

Moordryd winced.

"Did Connor say...?"

Kitt shook her head. "He isn't sure. At least a couple days 'till Artha's up and moving around again. And Lance..."

There was no misreading Moordryd's muttered grumble, even if she couldn't hear exactly what he'd said. She shared his feeling.

"He's making Lance do all these dumb exercises, see how the armor responds," she said, "and it's just making that little slag even more cocky than before. 'Ooh, look at me, I can do double backflips now'. And stupid Parm."

Moordryd glanced at her over the edge of his mug. "Hm?"

"Connor's got Parm sparring with Lance."

That made Moordryd sit straight, his eyes tightening. "What? Sparring?"

"More exercises," she sighed.

"Like Egghead knows how to fight," Moordryd grumbled. "I'll bet he's just standing there holding his jack stick while mini-brat flails around at him—"

"Not so loud," Kitt hissed.

Artha turned slightly, wincing even in his sleep. Moordryd waited until the other boy settled again.

"Tell me I'm wrong, though," he whispered.

"Nope," she said, and she flopped down in the other sofa. "I offered to do it instead, but Connor's afraid I can't control the armor yet. Thinks I'd burn Lance up by accident."

Moordryd gave her a look. "Would you? By accident, of course?"

She returned his look, then dramatically rolled her eyes with a handwave.

"Maybe. Just a little."

He gathered his legs under himself, taking the moment to drain the mug, shuddering as the heat pooled in his stomach. He put the empty mug down, stretching so far that his muscles trembled, then yawned again and relaxed.

"And you?" Kitt curled up, folding her arms over the edge of the sofa and resting her head. "Feeling better after napping next to 'stable brat'?"

His eyes narrowed. "I'm used to the floor, thanks."

"Yeah, next to your dragons," she said. There was no sarcasm or any overt tone to her voice, but she smiled behind her hand. "You always sleep next to the ones you like'?"

Neither of them spoke. Moordryd didn't dare look down at Artha again, but he knew he was only making himself more obvious to her. There was no point in denial.

"Does Artha know?" she asked.

"He's oblivious," Moordryd said, his voice hard. "He doesn't even know what he wants."

"What do you want?" she asked. She lifted her head curiously.

He shrugged, intentionally misunderstanding her.

"To get out of this stupid war alive?"

"That's it?" she prodded.

The memory of fear washed over him—being chased by a monstrous dragon rider, once in the desert, once in the city. Men who weren't just warriors but forces of nature controlling technology so ancient that it was almost like magic. Of riding in a frozen city. Of seeing towers collapsing around him. Of Artha trapped in his father's mind control gear.

"It's a war," he muttered, unable to keep from glancing at Artha. "Wars kill stupid heroes."

"Mm."

Would she tell Artha? Moordryd scolded himself. What was there to tell? He'd slept next to stable brat when there had been an empty couch nearby. What of it? He could just say he preferred the floor of a dragon stable at this point.

So why didn't he go sleep by Decepshun then? He growled to himself, then growled a little louder when he saw her look, wordlessly asking the same thing. With a huff, he grabbed his jack stick and stepped past her.

"Where are you going?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Downstairs," he said. "See if Connor wants a real sparring partner for the mini-brat."

If she made a reply, he didn't hear it, moving quickly to the cave and heading down in. Already he caught the sound of one jack stick against another, heard Parmon's little winces and anxious mumbles under Lance's grunts bouncing off the walls.

Connor, seated at the computer screens, glanced up to see who had come. When he spotted Moordryd, he frowned slightly and turned his chair to better face him.

"Is Artha all right?" Connor asked.

"He's fine," Moordryd said, waving him off. "I mean, aside from sleeping off the burns from mini-brat there."

In the center of the room, a fighting circle had been fenced off with barriers rising up out of the floor. Lance stopped spinning his jack stick, breaking off his attack. He didn't speak, worrying the stick in his hands, and Parmon took the opportunity to slip out of the ring.

Moordryd took a moment to study Parmon's armor. Slender and sleek like all the armors, his boots flared out at the knee, providing a solid, sturdy base. Moordryd had no doubt that if Parmon didn't want to be moved, any opponent would find themselves stopped in their tracks and then forced back.

"How's it feel?" Moordryd asked.

"I'm not sure," Parmon said, his voice resonating from his helmet. "I don't feel heavy, but I know it's heavy. I just...don't feel comfortable yet, I suppose."

"It feels like wearing plas-steel skin," Moordryd said with a nod. "You'll get used to it. Just need to get into a couple fights a few times."

He glanced at Lance, who was watching them silently.

"Real fights," he amended.

Parmon visibly winced, raising his hands together in his usual pose, incongruous with his armor. Moordryd would have teased, but he was focused over Parmon's shoulder at Lance as the other booster stiffened, standing straight and planting the end of his stick on the ground.

"I'm a fighter," Lance insisted.

Mordred's snort was all the answer needed.

"Come on," Lance said, jerking his head once toward the ring. "I'll show you I can handle this."

Moordryd glanced at Connor, who hadn't said anything. The older man's frown hadn't gone away. If anything, it had deepened.

"Lance," his father said, "Moordryd is a very different fighter from Parmon. He won't stand there blocking."

Parmon grumbled under his breath. "And letting you hit my fingers, too."

"I've fought him before," Lance argued. "He's not that hard."

Moordryd didn't let his smile show. He just glanced at Connor without any hint of emotion.

"He's ten years old," Connor said in a low voice.

"Tell that to Armeggaddon," Moordryd said just as softly. "Or my father. Or the down-city gangs."

Connor stared at him for a moment, then looked at his son.

"Is the armor..." Moordryd wondered how to even ask the question. He didn't know enough about their armor to begin to understand how they worked.

"It's not doing anything unusual," Connor said, understanding him. "Aside from accelerating his growth in a splitsecond. Otherwise there have been no fluctuations, no surges, nothing."

His sigh showed just how much that didn't reassure him.

"And even if he's more your size," Connor said, "he doesn't understand what a real fight is like."

"...I won't break him," Moordryd said. "He'll walk out of the ring."

Connor gave a long sigh, lowering his head.

"All right."

Moordryd was already dropping his amulet into his gauntlet, letting the armor form over himself. With the dark wisps still sliding around him, he crossed the floor and entered the ring.

"Cool," Lance said. "And this time maybe I can try using an energy blast or—"

"No!" Connor said, standing at his seat, one hand upraised as if he could grab his son from across the room. "Don't use any energy! There's no way of knowing what could happen!"

"Aww..." Lance crossed his arms, his jack stick folded awkwardly at his side. "I'm sure it'd be okay."

Moordryd frowned, and the glowing eyes of his helm narrowed.

Without warning, he swung his stick in an arc, striking the back of Lance's knees to send him backward. Lance landed on the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of him.

"Come on, mini-brat." Moordryd paced around him like an animal circling its prey. "I thought you were gonna give me a real fight."

"No fair," Lance groaned, rolling onto his front, slowly coming back to his feet. "We didn't start."

"We're both in the ring, ain't we?" Moordryd made a show of tapping his foot impatiently. "You're lucky I didn't start with your head!"

The last word was punctuated with a yell as Moordryd aimed his stick in a easily dodged thrust toward Lance's helmet. Lance threw himself completely over to one side to avoid it, then yelped as Moordryd followed with another swing that connected with his shoulder.

Parmon stood beside Connor, wincing every time Moordryd struck and sent Lance to the ground or scrambling out of reach. The few times that Lance managed to swing, Moordryd deflected it so that Lance was left wide open for a hit to his middle, another hit on his legs.

"Are you sure you want to let them keep going?" Parmon whispered.

"Lance needs to learn the difference between being a kid and a combatant," Connor said. "That he can't even defend himself yet. He's faced Moordryd enough times that...maybe he'll finally listen."

"And what about the gauntlet?" Parmon asked. "The armor?"

Connor didn't answer. He opened his mouth once, about to reply, then cut himself with a shake of his head.

A cry startled them back to the fight. Moordryd had one foot planted firmly on Lance's chest, holding him in place, and the tip of his stick rested lightly on Lance's throat.

"Quit squirming," Moordryd warned him. "Or you're gonna find yourself crawling out of this ring."

Lance reached out for his own stick one more time, straining his fingers and brushing the end of it...and then Moordryd smacked it away and whirled the stick around back to Lance's throat for good measure.

"Now do you get it?" Moordryd hissed. "You didn't even last a minute with me. How're you gonna last against Armeggaddon?"

Lance put his hands on the end of Moordryd's stick, relieving some of the pressure, and he kicked his heel into the floor out of frustration. With a long gasp, he shuddered and looked up at Moordryd. His eyes narrowed.

"Then teach me how."

Moordryd blinked, startled at how that hadn't been a request.

Lance was finally able to push him off, scrambling back so he could stand, leaning against the ring. He panted for breath, shoulders heaving, but he met Moordryd's stare steadily.

"Then teach me," Lance demanded again.

Not sure what to do, Moordryd looked at Connor.

"We don't even know if the armor is stable," Connor said. "And regardless of how you look—"

Lance wasn't listening. He brought his gauntlet up and yanked out the amulet.

Moordryd's helmet darkened protectively as the room filled with light. He turned, feeling the crackle of energy along his left side, and as the voltage grew in intensity, he found himself being pushed out of the ring. He stumbled and felt himself still sliding—his boots couldn't get a grip on the floor—he was picking up speed as he was shoved harder toward the stone wall—

An arm caught him, guiding him to the floor where the pressure suddenly stopped. Moordryd looked up and found Connor beside him, both of them behind Parmon. The power booster had brought up a dark green shield, deflecting the energy waves so that the blue crackle of lightning flowed around them.

"We have to reach Lance!" Connor yelled over the sound of sparks.

"It's taking all I have to hold this," Parmon said, his arms up in a block over his face. "If I try to move, we'll go crashing into the—"

The pressure stopped so suddenly that Parmon flailed for a moment, tottering forward. Behind them, the computer screens crackled and flickered, sparking at the edges and showing error screens. Parmon disengaged the struts that had come from his boots and lodged into the ground, letting him walk again.

"Lance!"

Connor came around Parmon, running for the ring. Parmon and Moordryd followed at his heels, stopping as Connor stood beside his son. A moment passed before Moordryd realized that Lance was still wearing the energy gauntlet.

Moordryd let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Lance was out of the armor and still looked like a teenager. He coughed a few times, shivering as the last bits of electricity coursed over his skin.

"There," he muttered, yanking on the gauntlet. "Will you teach me if the armor's off?"

He jerked at it once, then twice. Then pulled with all his might.

The gauntlet refused to budge.

By his boots, the amulet glittered with its own energy. Connor bent and swept it up, palming it in his fist.

"Maybe he can still shrink," Moordryd said. "If that thing ever comes off of him."

"He wouldn't 'shrink',' Parmon said, indignant at his word choice. "He would decelerate his aging, if that's even possible. And that isn't even scraping the surface of possibilities here. He could de-age back to a zygote, he could age until he crumbled to dust, his bones and organs could become unstable and grow right through his musculature..."

As Parmon rattled off the list, Lance stared at the ground as if he couldn't hear. Moordryd heaved a long sigh. He knew that look. That was someone staring into the distance, pretending that nothing else mattered except their goal and trying to hide the fear.

"Enough, Parm." Connor slid the amulet away for safekeeping. "I refuse to lose hope. I'll just have to keep running diagnostics on the gear and see if there's something I'm missing. As for Lance..."

Connor glanced at his son again. "Stay here. You're too volatile to let out of the safety of the cave. If you released another burst like that, someone could be seriously hurt."

Lance ground his teeth. "Just say it. You just want to take off the gauntlet. You just want me to be a kid."

"You are a kid," Connor said. "That you look different doesn't change that."

"But—"

"Look around you!" Connor finally snapped, waving his arm at the destroyed wiring and frayed cables. "I'm going to have to spend hours fixing this instead of monitoring for Armeggaddon or Word or... Your brother is hurt, Moordryd is still healing, and Kitt and Parm could have been seriously injured if their armor had been corrupted at all. You've been acting like a spoiled brat this entire time and you want us to think that you're somehow not a child?"

Connor bit off whatever else he was going to say and instead returned to the equipment, beginning repairs. Parmon sighed and released his own armor, sliding his amulet inside his pocket computer for safekeeping and going to help Connor.

Moordryd finally released his armor, vowing that next time he wouldn't let Lance's energy burst take him by surprise. And wondering if it would matter. Uncontrolled, that burst had still sent him tumbling despite being fully armored.

"Next time I'll find Egghead and hide behind him," he told himself.

As he headed for the door, Lance's mutter followed him.

"Will you teach me?"

Moordryd sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. He glanced over his shoulder.

"I think you've pushed your father as far as he'll go today," he said. "Quit acting like a brat for awhile, get him so he's not scared to death that you're gonna die, and then we'll talk."

Lance's eyes widened. "He thinks I'm gonna die?"

"Well, to be fair," Moordryd grinned without humor, "he thinks we all might die. He's trying to keep us from being ripped apart or crushed or burned to a crisp. If you'd listen to him half a moment, you'd see that."

The pout on Lance's face didn't match his older features. His thoughts warred with the understanding that his father cared and the deep frustration that his father didn't have any faith in him. And the fact that Parmon and Kitt and Artha and Moordryd all agreed with him made Lance want to break something.

"Like you listen to your father?" Lance asked.

Moordry's grin faded to nothing. The muscle in his jaw tightened.

"If I listened to my father," he said lowly, "you'd be dead right now. And if my father catches me, he's going to lock me in the tower and beat me until I can't move." He looked away from Lance, sick of him and his voice and attitude and questions that hit too close to the mark.

"Your dad gives a damn about you. Sorry I'm not all that sympathetic."

When Moordryd reached the top of the stairs, he paused just long enough to look out at the stables. He spotted Kitt putting out feed and water. The security grid was already humming overhead. In no mood for conversation, he went and sat down by Artha again.

"Hurry and wake up," he muttered. "It feels like I'm alone in here."

The blanket rustled.

"Oh, I don't know," came the soft murmur beside him. "'Least I got you in here 'stead of the stables."

The familiar voice was all it took to clear Moordryd's bad mood. As he turned, however, he saw the look of Artha's face. Even under the simple bandage, his expression was clear. Artha's eyes seemed to see someone completely different as he looked at Moordryd.

Kitt had told.

Artha looked at him with...pity. It had to be. And Moordryd felt the last bits of firm ground crumbling out from under him.


	18. Chapter 18

"Help me up."

Artha grunted, rising on his elbows. His breath tightened as the pain twisted over his skin. And then Moordryd eased his hands under Artha's back, slowly bringing him upright.

"You shouldn't be getting up," Moordryd argued weakly. "You'll pull your burns open."

"I'm not—ow!—not getting up," Artha said, turning so he could put his feet on the floor. "I'm just sick of lying down."

Artha kept a tight grip on Moordryd's hand as he sat still, his eyes squeezed shut. Moordryd waited, watching Artha's face for any sign that he was going to pass out or give into the pain. Or throw up, although that was more from a memory of when a stomach bug had worked its way through the Dragon Eyes crew.

Focus, he scolded himself. Artha's hurting. Quit—

With a deep sigh, Artha relaxed, his shoulders dropping. After a moment, he opened his eyes, and Moordryd realized that he was sitting too close. He stiffened—he was still touching Artha's back, their hands were still together—he tried to pull away.

Instead Artha tightened his grip, refusing to let Moordyd go. And when he turned his head slightly, Moordryd found that Artha's blue eyes were so clear that he could see himself reflected inside.

"Moordryd—"

"Artha—"

They both winced as the pause stretched longer and longer. Both of them knew what was hanging horribly between them and both of them knew they needed to say something, but neither could start. Worse, nevermind starting—neither knew what to say at all. And the silence only grew heavier as neither spoke.

"How's Lance?" Artha finally managed.

Moordryd's look fell from strained to exasperated.

"That good, huh?" Artha smiled despite himself.

"Mini-brat's living up to his name," Moordryd grumbled. "Beating up Egghead, thinking he can fight, then the moment I put him on the ground, he starts telling me to teach him—"

"Wait, he was fighting Parm?" Artha said, blinking

"—and then when none of us think that's a good idea, he rips off his stupid armor and almost blasts us into the wall."

Moordryd tried to wave his hands dramatically and could only move one, his other still trapped in Artha's. He didn't seem to notice, too wrapped up in his annoyance.

"If Brainiac didn't have that power booster armor, I think all three of us would've been smashed flat."

Artha frowned, seizing the only thing that made sense in all that.

"Y'know, his name is Parmon."

Moordryd rolled his eyes. "So? He's still a brainiac and you're still a stable brat."

"...even now?"

His low voice brought them back to the main problem. Both of them fell silent, not looking at each other.

"Even now," Moordryd said, staring at the floor in the far corner of the room. "I swear, I'm gonna mag her through a window."

"Kitt?" Artha asked. "Why?"

Moordryd froze. "What do you mean, 'why'? She told you I...wait. Didn't she say something...about...um..."

"No," Artha said, then sighed and chuckled once. "Geez. Did everyone notice but me?"

"Notice...what?" Moordryd asked slowly.

"Dad told me." Artha gave Moordryd a look that said they both knew what he meant. "When I woke up the first time. I was wondering why he was standing behind the couch. You were kinda asleep on the floor in front of me."

Moordryd leaned forward, trying to pull his hand free again. Still Artha wouldn't let go, and Moordryd rested his head in his palm, grimacing at his own obviousness.

"He said a Paynn won't tell you the truth, but they can't help but show you truth instead." Artha took a long breath. "And that I had to make a decision."

Moordryd winced, turning away. He could hear it in Artha's voice—let Moordryd down easy, don't let him stay interested, it's nothing personal, just friends and allies—

"There's...a lot going on right now," Artha said. "Armeggaddon, your dad, my stupid brother, the war...I mean, I don't even have any friends outside of the crew, nevermind trying to date. And...well, you know it's not something you advertise on the track."

Not wanting to answer, Moordryd gave a faint nod. Yes, he knew. Riders in relationships would find their partners being attacked in order to distract them, or other crews would offer bribes or threats to drag secrets out of their lover. Or sometimes relationships were offered simply to sabotage the next race, and the unlucky rider had their heart broken as their lover sped past them on the track. And if a racer revealed that he was watching the other male riders, it was a perceived weakness—the race demanded absolute focus. Anyone with wandering eyes was revealing a chink in their armor.

All reasons that Moordryd had kept his mouth shut and his eyes straight forward. He dragged in a breath—he couldn't stand listening to it anymore. He'd hidden his interest precisely because he couldn't have that kind of weakness dragged into the light, and even if it was just stupidly honorable Artha who knew—

"But..." Artha said, "if you're willing to try...I'd like to give it a shot."

A moment passed before what he'd said sank in. Moordryd blinked, then glanced over his shoulder.

"...what?"

"A shot," Artha said again, wondering if he was doing this wrong and now speaking too quickly. "I mean, maybe we'll both decide it's too hard right now or that we don't...I mean, you have to admit. We're, um...we're really, really different...and..."

A laugh slipped out of Moordryd. He realized his hand was shaking, and with some effort, he managed to hold it still. The tension in his back began to relax, and he laughed again at how ridiculous they were. They'd take on an entire prophecy by themselves, but a stupid conversation nearly left him in pieces.

"Okay," he said, smiling despite himself. "We'll try it out. And...who knows? Maybe we won't end up hating each other. Maybe you'll even like it."

Artha looked at him more seriously. "Have you ever...um...?"

"Ever what?" Moordryd asked.

"You know," Artha said. "Have you ever...?"

Moordryd stared at him a little longer before he realized what Artha meant. He colored slightly.

"Oh, that." He considered lying, then shrugged. Why bother lying? "Yeah. A couple times."

His look fell back to the floor. Against his will, he remembered insults, mocking laughter. The slamming of a door and the sound of heavy dragon-hide boots fading into the distance.

"That's why I didn't say anything." Moordryd shrugged. "Things didn't exactly end well. I...I didn't want a repeat of that."

Artha frowned, about to ask, when the sound of dragon at full gallop came up to the door. Moordryd was up on his feet even as Kitt burst into the room, panting for breath.

"Dragons," she said, her words choppy as she gasped for breath. "Black. I could barely see them on Connor's security grid, but they're coming fast."

"On it—" Artha said, starting to rise. He hissed and fell back onto the couch as the burns across his body pulled and tore.

"Oh no you don't," Kitt and Moordryd chorused without realizing.

"I'll get Connor," Kitt said, already heading down. Her voice echoed up at them. "And Parm!"

"Stay put," Moordryd said, gently pulling at Artha's hand. "It's probably just my crew."

"She didn't say the Black Eyes," Artha said. "She said black dragons. That means your dad. Or Armeggaddon—"

"She didn't say those, either." Moordryd squeezed Artha's hand, then relaxed, waiting expectantly.

After a brief struggle with himself, Artha sighed and let go.

"Be careful."

With a nod, Moordryd turned and headed out, dropping the amulet into the gauntlet. Where before the transformation had controlled him, he found himself growing more and more in control of the power. In midstep, the armor formed around him and it was the shadow booster that came out onto the sand.

Only a few seconds later, the ground began to audibly rumble. Moordryd briefly considered trying to rouse Decepshun, but he shook his head. It had only been a couple of days since she had been thrown by his father and taken the brunt of his attack. Moordryd couldn't bring her up into a battle against what felt like a flight of dragons. He would just have to wait and hope that he could stall long enough for Parmon, Kitt or Connor to show up.

The rumbling finally came close enough that he could hear the solid thunks of dragon claws on pavement. In the neon light, he saw them come around the building at the far end of the street, a mass of dark silhouettes that gleamed with purple and silver edges. His eyes widened. He'd expect three or four. Kitt hadn't said there were almost fifteen.

The only saving grace was that they were riderless, coming without any gear. His mind raced back to Connor explaining the ancient prophecies, the priests foreseeing the rise of a new war between dragons and humans. Was this the start? Were the dragons now gathering an army?

They must have seen him, but they weren't slowing down. If anything, the one in front roared and put her head down, charging toward him.

Moordryd felt himself go cold and numb. They meant to trample him down.

A shield wouldn't work against the amount of energy that they could muster. He couldn't blast them away. And these were slender, agile black dragons—they could follow him up into the stands and easily run him down. Even with the booster armor, without a dragon of his own, they would outmatch him eventually.

They were almost at the gate—finally they came into the light of Penn stables.

Moordryd steeled himself. They were dragons. He was a Paynn. And if he meant what he'd said about the proper role of dragons in society, the outcome that he hoped for in the war, then he had only one option. He took a deep breath, then dropped down to one knee, hand on the ground, bowing his head.

The roaring ceased. The ground stopped shuddering as the dust and sand kicked up, blowing past him. He was surrounded by their heavy pants, their low growls, but they weren't snarling or snapping. He recognized these sounds, the patient consideration of dragons waiting for the leader to make a decision.

Where were the other boosters? Moordryd drew tighter and tighter into himself as the seconds passed. Why wasn't the cavalry coming? Maybe Connor had decided that trying to save him wasn't worth it—not like they had any love for a dragon thief. And the moment these black dragons decided to stomp him into the sand or fling him into the empty air, to tumble down into the lower levels—

The leader of the dragons began to chuckle.

Moordryd blinked, looking up at her. Inside his helmet, his eyes grew huge and his jaw dropped in joy. In a moment he'd stood and put his arms around her neck, feeling the dragon put her head on his shoulder, the only way she had to hold him in return.

"Um...does this mean we're not going to fight?"

Moordryd turned his head just enough to see to his right. To the side of the stadium, Kitt and Parm flanked Connor, the only one of them who'd already been in his armor.

"Definitely no fighting," Connor said with a growing smile. "I think I recognize this pack now that I can see them properly."

"When did you—?" Moordryd started, then remembered. Connor had seen him frantically call home just before trying to escape his father.

Moordryd smiled, suddenly as self-conscious as he'd been when sitting beside Artha. He glanced at the dragon, who raised an eyeridge in question, and he stepped back, keeping one hand on the dragon's neck

"Um, Mare," he started, "this is Parmon Sean, Connor Penn and Kitt Won. They're the ones who took me in after father found out."

He glanced at his fellow boosters.

"This is Mare, my...nannydrag." He motioned at the rest of the dragons now forming a semi-circle around him. "And the rest of my, uh..."

"There's no other word for it," Connor said. "Your nest mates."

"Wait," Kitt breathed. "A full sized dragon? Was your nannydrag?"

Mare gave a decisive nod.

"May I assume," Connor began, "that you and your flight of dragons have fled from Word Paynn's citadel and need a place to stay?"

Mare nodded again.

"I'm glad that the stables are mostly empty right now," Connor said. "You're welcome to take your pick. Beau and the others can help you get settled in."

The rest of the day was a blur of opening some of the stables and setting them up with soft bedding, chow and water, scraping scales that had gone cloudy, tending to dragon paw pads that had split from hard running, taping up cracked claws not yet used to racing on pavement. Decepshun, the eldest of Mare's brood, limped over to her mother's side and fell back asleep.

Neither Kitt nor Parm came to help, which Moordryd didn't begrudge. They were busy with Lance and their own armor and training, and Moordryd spent the time talking, catching his nannydrag up on what had happened—on Word's ancient warrior gear, on Connor being a dragon priest and his friends all dragon boosters. On Armegaddon and the Academy. Occasionally one of the black dragons huffed or snorted, asking wordless questions, laughing or nuzzling him, and Moordryd answered as easily as if he understood everything they said.

Connor watched from a distance, appraising and quietly observing.

Maybe Moordryd understood them after all.

As evening crept in and Moordryd set the stable lights to dim, he watched his nest mates curl up in communal piles, taking up three stables. For him, it was like having the comfort of his nannydrag close by while also knowing that she was outside of her safe stable in the citadel. Like something that he cared about held by a fragile thread.

"Kneeling like that was very brave," Connor said behind him.

Moordryd froze. The man had a maddening ability to sneak up on even a thief. It took an act of will to relax again.

"'Brave'," Moordryd muttered. "It was all I could think of."

"Maybe not the best of plans," Connor admitted. "But it worked. And now your father can't get to them."

"Yet," Moordryd sighed.

He closed off the stables, protecting them from the cooler night temperatures, and he joined Connor as they walked back to the house.

"Or Armeggaddon," Moordryd said. "Or...hell, if I'm not lucky, father might have reported them stolen."

"Trust me," Connor laughed. "If there's one thing Word won't do, it's contact the police. Too many questions."

Moordryd hoped Connor was right. Knew he was probably right. With the dragons there at the stables, though, he didn't feel confident enough when he saw every way it could fall apart.

"Moordryd," Connor said, more seriously. "What do you know about the ancient black draconium empire?"

"I..." Moordryd paused. "Not much. Father didn't explain history to me. I think he doesn't consider it important. I've tried studying up on it, but..."

"But academy books can be dense and difficult to understand," Connor said, smiling when Moordryd looked at him in surprise.

"You knew?" Moordryd said.

"That you saved a handful of books from the fire?" Connor said. "You fidget in your sleep. The books slid out from under the pillow. I'm amazed you managed to grab those ones in particular, but I'm glad you did."

"I didn't pick them. The armor did."

"Hm."

Connor opened the door, escorting him back inside. Both of them looked to Artha, making sure he was asleep and comfortable. Connor said nothing else about Moordryd's concern. To their mutual relief. There was a conversation neither of them wanted to have.

"Actually," Connor said. "I'd like to look through those books with you. I think they'll help explain your heritage as the shadow booster."

"'My heritage'?" Moordryd said.

"The Black Draconium Empire was like the others," Connor said. "Trying to breed their dragons into stronger, obedient soldiers. But the original shadow booster...you share a lot with him. And now that I think about it, we should give you a physical exam as well."

"What? Why?" Moordryd halted, refusing to follow him into the cave after that. "What do you mean? An examination? Like tests? Like—"

"Not like your father's," Connor said firmly. "No wires, no electrodes. Nothing invasive. I really just want to check your draconium levels."

Moordryd frowned. It was common knowledge that humans absorbed some draconium simply by living around dragons. Everyone had some kind of influence in their life—it was why Kitt worked more easily with a magma-class dragon and Parmon with a bull-class.

"You want to see how much black draconium I've absorbed," Moordryd realized.

"Yes." Connor waited, not heading downstairs yet, and he lowered his voice so they wouldn't wake Artha. "I want to see if...well. I have my suspicions about the original shadow booster and why he rebelled against his empire. If you'll allow me to read the books you found and compare it with your own experience, I may have an answer."

"If I allow you?" Moordryd asked, frowning.

"I'm not going to force you into anything you wouldn't want," Connor said.

Moordryd felt his heart clench. Why couldn't his own father...? He strangled that thought and buried it deep. From Connor's look, the other man knew what he was thinking. His gaze went straight through Moordryd.

"...sure," Moordryd murmured. "As long as you tell me everything."

"Nothing held back," Connor promised. "No matter what."

Moordryd followed him into the darkness beneath the house, their steps echoing in the empty cavern as they descended down the long steps.


	19. Chapter 19

Moordryd gave the computer a wary look, glancing sideways at Connor.

"Do I really have to?" he asked.

Connor chuckled once at Moordryd's tone. For a moment, he sounded like Artha trying to beg off taking care of the stabled dragons.

"No," Connor said. "Blood or a strand of hair would work best, but you could just put your hand on the scanner and let it read your draconium levels. Of course, since this will probably take two or three hours..."

As Connor let his voice trail off, Moordryd's shoulders dropped and he gave the scanner a look as if it had personally offended him.

"Y'know, for ancient technology, this isn't very impressive," he said.

"The scanner comes from the Dragon Priests," Connor said. "Who've held it since the ancient Dragon-Human war. I'm just happy it works at all."

Moordryd stared at it for a moment longer, then gave a long sigh and yanked a single strand of hair, wincing at the sharp sting. As he lay it on the scanner, Connor sat and picked up one of the books that Moordryd had taken from the burning academy.

"Have you started reading any of these?" Connor asked.

"...kind of."

Moordryd ignored the second seat, instead sitting crosslegged on the floor. Connor's eyes widened slightly but he said nothing, wondering if Moordryd read on the floor as a habit or if his time with dragons meant he just didn't like using chairs. Dragon stables simply had no need for them.

"Empire of Shadow was the easiest," Moordryd said. "It was pretty interesting with the fighting and the other empires, but then it went into the politics and money and...I kinda lost it there."

"They are somewhat dense," Connor said, focusing back on the books. "Academy books tend to be more intense than what you would find in a normal bookstore."

Connor opened the copy he'd picked up to the first page. "A Treatise on the Philosophy of Balance...all matter submits to a hierarchy of forms, beginning from the equality of all colors to the primacy of gold, itself much more than the sum of its parts despite the universality of the values of draconium..."

"Yeah," Moordryd said, glaring sidelong at the book. "I tried that one, too. Didn't get very far."

"It just means that all the colors of draconium are equal," Connor said, "but gold is on top, despite being just as equal as the rest."

"Why didn't it just say that?" Moordryd grumbled. And then frowned. "But..."

"How does that even make sense?" Connor chuckled. "It's philosophy. Sometimes you have to read it two or three times before the reasons at the end of the book help the first part make sense."

Moordryd grimaced. "I'm gonna let you do that one. The last one's a lot easier to get...mostly."

"Which one?" Connor asked.

"Empire of Shadow," Moordryd said, opening it up to his bookmark, one of Decepshun's shed scales slid a third of the way inside. "It mentions the shadow booster once, but only in how he stopped the dragon booster from...um...stopping a riot."

"'A riot'?" Connor echoed. "Did it say what people were rioting about?"

"Hang on." Moordryd flipped back several pages, grimacing as the paper cracked and flaked under his fingers. "Dammit, how old is this book anyway?"

"If it's talking about the shadow booster in the present tense?" Connor said. "Three thousand years."

"Scales..." Moordryd muttered under his breath as he handled the pages a little more gently. Bits of the edges still crumbled away. "There, found it. Um, it's kind of long."

"That's fine," Connor said. "What's it say?"

"'In anticipating the first economic attack, the Shadow Empire sent its agent to the capitol of the Orange Empire, Alqaliu, to observe the ongoing chaos of the food shortages. While there, the largest storehouse of grain and seasonal stock suffered a terrible conflagration, the result of the Orange Empire's overconfidence with their human slaves. The dragon booster allegedly appeared during the ensuing disturbance, attempting to calm down the rampaging dragons, but the Shadow Empire's observer revealed the dragon booster's hand in starting the blaze to aid the human slaves. In the confusion, the dragon booster escaped and Alqaliu continues to lose control over its starving slaves."

Connor nodded once. "The shadow booster started a fire that burned down their food supplies, probably to help destabilize the Orange Empire and weaken their hold over their human riders."

"Why?" Moordryd said. "That would've killed dragons and humans."

"The orange dragons then weren't just a pack out in the wastes. They were an entire empire with thousand of enslaved humans, and they were an enemy of the Shadow Empire, who believed that humans should rule."

Heaving a long sigh, Connor opened the philosophy book to the first page.

"I'm sure it helped the Shadow Empire's agenda in other ways, but so much time has passed that most of the history has been forgotten. It's just one instance of the many times the shadow booster fought the dragon booster."

Moordryd considered that, wondering how long the two had been rivals until the shadow booster finally changed sides. A thought struck him.

"When the shadow booster finally joined with the dragon booster, was he joining the Gold empire?"

Connor frowned, pausing for a long moment. He glanced sideways into the darkness.

"There was no gold empire. Gold was the original color, the Star Dragons who were the original dragons. When the humans started breeding them for earth moving or heat, that's when dragons began to change color. The ancient dragon booster was working with the other boosters, but not with the other empires, not really."

Moordryd looked back at his book, letting the pages fall back to the last page he'd been reading.

"And the Shadow Booster went with his dragon?"

"What few records that the Dragon Priests have," Connor said, "all agree that the shadow booster left the black empire because of his dragon. He couldn't stand to see her treated like an animal."

Just how much did he have in common with the ancient Shadow Booster? Moordryd didn't reply, instead burying himself back in his reading.

Ancient politics didn't mean very much to him, especially when it was the minutiae of how the Shadow Empire struck in one kingdom or betrayed another. He tried to focus just on the Shadow Booster, but most of the mentions of him were limited to how he served the empire, nothing else. Nothing about what he believed, what his dragon believed. And even the few mentions about him kept calling him the empire's agent. He wasn't sure how he knew that meant the shadow booster—perhaps it was the armor and amulet remembering for him.

_The war slipped from the empire's grip, however, as it always does—with both rider and dragon succumbing to their psionic pairing._

Moordryd finally sighed and put down the book, hiding his yawn behind the cover.

"That's it," he muttered, setting the book on the console. "I'm gonna fall over."

"You had a big day," Connor said, sweeping that book and the other two under his hand. "I'll finish reading these, then help you try to make sense of them. I have a few suspicions about pure black dragons that I think I can answer with these."

"Great, awesome, totally drac..." Moordryd pushed himself up, pressing a hand to his forehead to stave off the headache. "I'm gonna go keel over upstairs. Don't wake me 'less it's my father charging down on us."

"Upstairs," Connor echoed. "With your dragons...or with Artha?"

The haze in Moordryd's mind suddenly cleared as chills ran down his spine. He hadn't even asked Connor what he thought about his possible relationship with Artha. Nevermind all the fighting they had done before—did Connor really want a Payne with his son? Moordryd froze—how stupid to turn his back on a dangerous fighter.

"If...that's okay?" Moordryd said, half-turning to face him even as he expected a jack stick in his back. "I'm not gonna...I mean...I don't know what that blue energy did to him. I just kinda wanna be there..."

"As long as that's all that happens," Connor said, chuckling as Moordryd turned faintly red. "If Artha's willing to try, then. Well. I was his age when I met Gwennyvere."

Moordryd almost asked "your wife?", then realized how stupid that question was. Of course Connor's wife. Artha never mentioned his mother, just like Moordryd never mentioned Zulay in front of his father. Wounds like that never healed, and questions only tore them open fresh again.

"I promise I won't hurt him," Moordryd said suddenly, not sure why he blurted it out. "I mean, we're not fighting—I'm trying my best not to make anyone here angry...I...ugh, scales. I mean..."

Now Connor laughed once despite himself.

"You're as bad as your father," Connor said, leaning back in his chair. "Go on, get to sleep. We have work in the morning."

Wondering what Connor meant about his father, knowing better than to ask, Moordryd sighed at himself and headed back upstairs, collapsing in a pile next to Artha's couch.

"Finally."

Something soft and heavy dropped on his head. For a moment he was tangled up in it, and then his hands found the edges and pulled the blanket down again.

"Kitt—I swear—"

"Hey, don't yell at me when I'm the one who brought bedding for ya."

She smiled as she tossed a pillow at his head, a little disappointed when he caught it in one hand before it could hit his face.

"We got the little monster put to bed with Fracshun," she said. "What were you and Connor doing?"

"Nothing—" Moordryd started, narrowing his eyes, but her look didn't waver. She knew what he looked like when he lied, and he had to remind himself that he could be honest here. They knew that he was a thief. He didn't have to lie.

He grumbled and pulled the blanket close.

"...reading old books," he said. "I stole them from the academy. When it was burning."

"Academy books?" she breathed. "Drac."

"No," he said, "boring and impossible to understand. I just gave up right now. He's gonna keep going with 'em."

"Huh." She looked at him a moment longer, then gave a shrug and a wave of her hands. "Never a bad thing to admit when you need help."

Moordryd didn't think he believed that yet, but he didn't say so.

"Why're you still up?" he asked. "It's late."

"Putting Lance down took longer than we thought," Kitt sighed. "Energy Booster is right. He could run circles around us."

"Don't tell him that," Moordryd said.

"I know, I know. Stupid kid. If he'd just get it through his thick skull that he's not helping—he's just making everything harder..." She sighed again, hopelessly this time. "Then he wouldn't be a kid, I guess."

"Mini-brat," Moordryd said.

"I dunno," she said with a grin. "You like the big brat enough."

Moordryd just gave her a look. "Go to bed, Kitt."

"Sure, sure," she said. "If you need me, I'll be bedding down in the double stable with Parm."

"Oh?" Moordryd watched her pause in the doorway. "The egghead, huh?"

"Yeah," she said, tossing her head. "So?"

"Nothing," he said. "Not like I got any room to talk."

Kitt watched him a moment longer, gauging if that was sincere or not. Then she gave him half a smile and walked out, her footsteps crunching through the sand until he couldn't hear her anymore.

Moordryd heaved a long sigh, leaning back against the couch. He brought the blanket up around himself and used the pillow for his back, letting his head rest near Artha's shoulder.

"It was easier dealing with all this dreck when I was hiding in the undercity," he mumbled to himself.

As he shifted around, trying to get comfortable, he felt Artha's arm moving behind him. Then Artha let his arm drop over Moordryd, falling easily across him and holding him with a weak grip. A warm grip. Weary as he was, there was still strength there, confidence that Moordryd took comfort in. And the embrace was enough to clear away some of the doubts and worries and let him fall asleep past nightmares.

Artha managed to stand the next day and move about the next, leaning on Moordryd as he was introduced to his nest mates. Artha watched Parmon and Kitt practice together, tried to talk to his little brother and sighed when Lance didn't listen.

The day after that, he was walking on his own, still shaky and staying by Moordryd's side as he occasionally swayed or tilted off balance. He was joined by Decepshun, without her gear or saddle, as they made slow trips around the arena, walking off their injuries with Beau and Moordryd close. That night, he finally left the couch and bedded down in the cave with his crew, protesting that he was all right when they piled extra blankets for him.

"I swear, guys," Artha grumbled, huffing as they added the rest of the dragon blankets to his pallet. "It's not the first time I've taken a bad hit."

"You're still banged up," Kitt said, threatening to punch his shoulder and motioning at him when he cringed. "See?"

"Your system was overtaxed," Parmon said. "By a power we're still trying to understand. That isn't something to take lightly."

Artha groaned and looked at Moordryd, hoping for help. He groaned when he saw the last blanket in his hands. "Not you, too!"

"Hey, this isn't just for you," Moordryd said. He tossed the blanket on the ground beside Artha's and nudged it with his boot. His blanket was a good twelve inches below Artha's, and he tossed his jack stick between them as well. "This is for my protection."

Artha tilted his head, then glanced over his shoulder at his father, who nodded once in grim approval. He blinked, trying to figure out what they meant...and then Artha's face flushed red. This was the first night that he and Moordryd would sleep side by side, and right under Connor's watchful eye.

"Oh, scales..." Artha pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, grimacing at the logic. "Dad, we're not gonna do anything like that!"

"Correct," Connor said simply.

"I don't know what you were like when you were young," Artha said, "but that is totally not on the table."

"Also correct," Connor said again.

"Ugh! You're impossible!" Artha gave up, plopping down on the blankets. After a moment, he relaxed and stared at the ceiling. "Wow...this is pretty comfortable."

"Good," Parmon said. "Hopefully you'll feel even better in the morning. Then we can really try out our new armor."

Artha grinned as his friends spread out around him, all of them groaning or sighing in relief as they finally lay down for the night. They had all been up and working for days, and rest came to them like taking off heavy packs during a long march.

"Feels like a dragon pile," Mordryd murmured, scooting so that his back was against Artha's nest. "Don't you roll on top of me, stable brat."

Kitt chuckled. "Did you get squashed when you were a kid?"

"It's no joke," Moordryd said. "You think hatchlings are cute—wait 'till one rolls over and pins you under its side."

"Oh, I know," she said. "Wyldfyre got me twice like that. Hazards of living with a dragon in down city."

Parmon looked up from his own blanket. He didn't think Connor would frown too heavily on Parmon and Kitt sleeping so closely, but he didn't risk asking, either.

"Sir," he asked. "Will you be staying up again?"

Connor nodded once. "I want to try to finish this book on psionic dragons and riders and then place some orders for more dragon chow. I shouldn't be up too late."

Moordryd lay down quietly, letting Artha take his hand as the other boy let his arm dangle from the side. Connor was still working through _The Tragedy of Psionics_ , the book about the link between the black dragons and their riders. That it was ominously titled bothered him, but he hadn't been able to slog through such dense reading. He didn't like that Connor felt determined to finish it.

But that was one more problem on a pile of problems growing ever larger, and he did his best to cast the thought off to the side and clear his mind long enough to go to sleep. There was nothing he could do for now except rest. He would try to deal with his problems when he woke up and had a full flight of black dragons at his back.

Connor glanced over the top of the book, watching as they each drifted off. Once certain they were asleep, he turned quietly and brought up the results of scanning Moordryd's hair.

35% black draconium.

It made no sense. Most riders grew attuned to a certain type of dragon, but even the most physically altered riders never reached over 25%. Their hair changed color, their eyes sometimes as well, and they even adapted in other ways, with the riders of heavier greens often turning bulky, the riders of reds becoming whipcord thin. It didn't affect everyone—Parmon being one example—but even he could be stubborn and inflexible in his own way.

To reach 35%...

What had Word done to his son? Was it simply the result of growing up with dragons? Connor frowned and studied Moordryd again, glancing at his hand holding Artha's in his sleep.

The black draconium certainly hadn't entered his skin or hair, although it might have made a difference in his eyes. Was it why Moordryd was even more pale, more ashen? Connor didn't think so. No, the only way that much draconium might take effect would be in his neural net. His brain.

In the morning, he would ask Moordryd if he ever understood the black dragons without words or expression. And he would try to explain why the Shadow Booster armor had specifically summoned the book The Tragedy of Psionics and the danger both Moordryd and Decepshun faced.

Another reason to encourage his relationship with Artha. As far as Connor knew, it might be the only way of keeping the Shadow Booster's power on their side. In a human-dragon war, they couldn't afford to lose a fifth of their fighting strength to one faction or the other.

"And," he murmured softly to himself, "it seems I will need to ask Decepshun just how nuanced her stance on the war is."


	20. Chapter 20

Moordryd dreamed of an endless empty road through the city, a winding loop of dim yellow lights spaced too far to properly see the road. Beneath him, Decepshun ran so hard that every step jolted him in the saddle, and behind him came the heavy steps of something twice her size running just as fast, its hot breath brushing against his back. He felt the collar being locked around his neck, heavy chain dragging him backward. Human hands pushed reins into his mouth. Then the street itself started to shake, huge chunks of pavement crumbling beneath them as Decepshun roared in fear—

Something fell on top of him. Moordryd yelled as he pushed at it, sure that he was being stepped on by something monstrous. The floor shook again—Kitt and Parmon were yelling, he heard Connor yelling—

Moordryd was enveloped in his armor before he realized he was suiting up, scooting back from the explosion of light in front of him, revealing Artha in his own armor. Beside him, Kitt and Parmon were also in the middle of transforming, and Moordryd scrambled to his feet.

The floor shifted, tilting him sideways, and he had to grab at the floor with his gauntlet's claws.

"What's going on?" he yelled over the thunderous rumbling.

"I don't know!" Connor stood at his computers, ignoring the sparks showering from his computers, the orange and gold flashes giving them scant light. One of the monitors hissed static, then glowed with the image of the whole Dragon City structure.

Even at a distance, Moordryd recognized the distinctive outline—the Academy tracks on top, the high towers of the elite, then the Midcity levels, followed by the Security Precinct level flashing yellow on the screen.

"Something's happening down below," Connor said, startling back as the final computer screen gave an electric snap and went dark again. "Something's attacking the security forces."

"Can't say I mind—" Moordryd dug his gauntlet's claws deeper as the floor shook again. "But does it have to bring the rest of the city down to do it?"

"Let's go down and ask them," Artha said, but he yelped as he fell forward. "Anyone got a light? I'm tripping over everything in here."

"On it!"

A jet of flame shot into the air, rolling over itself like a miniature explosion, but the fire continued long after it should have gone out. Beneath it, both hands raised, Kitt looked as if she were playing cat's cradle with the flames.

As they raced up the stairs, they found the doors swinging wildly on their hinges, their locks broken from the force of the ground shifting. The stables were in an uproar, the dragons half in and out of their enclosures, not sure if they were safer under a roof that could crumble or in the arena where the upper levels could crash down on them.

"Do we even have a plan?" Parmon asked, climbing onto Cyrano's saddle but unsure of where to go.

"What?" Artha yelled over another rumble. He reached up to his helm, tuning in the signal. "Everyone, use your comms—it's getting too loud to hear."

"I said, do we even have a plan?" Parmon said again, his voice tinny and thin on their high frequency. "Decepshun is still hurt and you're—"

"I've fought with worse," Artha said, his bravado belied by how Beau had to kneel to let him step up more easily. "And the plan is that we're heading down to the security level, but I don't wanna be noticed 'till we get there."

Moordryd heard his unspoken question, nodding once as Decepshun turned with nervous energy.

"Through the maintenance sectors," he said. "There are some older ones no one uses anymore."

He led them through several alleys, trying to avoid the people and dragons panicking in the street. As they came to a drainage culvert, one large enough for their dragons, Moordryd glanced back the way they had come. Mounds of brick and steel had toppled off of homes and businesses onto the pavement, and he hesitated as he considered the dark tunnel.

"Ar—Dragon Booster," Moordryd said, catching himself before he said Artha's name. "I don't...the tunnel's old, I'm afraid it might have twisted in there—something could've jammed. You don't wanna ride down that way and get stuck."

"Oh, I think it'll be okay," Artha said with a grin. "Power Booster, if you would?"

"You mean go down head first into a dangerous tunnel that could be stopped up with any manner of deadly debris?" Parmon and Cyrano both peered into the darkness, and they shared a look as the rumbles of the shifting megastructure echoed out.

Parmon scrunched down into his saddle and grasped the thrusters, now a glowing hot white as Cyrano audibly hummed with the ancient armor's power.

"If anything's down there, we'll just force it out of the way!" Parmon said, igniting the thrusters and sending himself and Cyrano galloping down.

Kitt sprinted after him, with Moordryd and Artha on her heels.

"Stay close behind us," Parmon yelled. "If we break through something too big, I doubt the tunnel structure will hold together more than a few seconds."

An awful crash made them all cringe as dust and water splashed back, followed by thick cracks that spread along the tunnel. As Kitt and Moordryd ran by, pieces of concrete and steel wire shuddered and broke off around them, dropping into the open air. Their heavy dragon footfalls left the rest of the floor in tatters behind them, and Beau vaulted the remaining space, threading the narrow opening and landing just behind Decepshun.

"Could you land any harder?" Moordryd snapped, accompanied by Decepshun's irate snarl. "We're not trying to drop this level, too!"

"Pay attention!" Kitt said, adding her flames to make light. "There's another one coming—"

The crash of another blockage drowned her out, and the daring leaps were done again. For almost two miles, they ran along a section of tunnel destroyed under their own steps. When they finally came out, Parmon had to put on both his dragon's amplified breaks and also reverse his thrusters, and even so, they still slid across the steel shaft, stopping at the edge of a collapsed chunk of the maintenance tube.

Kitt and Moordryd, the lightest riders on the lightest dragons, couldn't stop in time, crashing into Cyrano's tail. The heavy green dragon barely noticed the extra weight, flicking his tail against Wyldfyre's side to push her back upright. The tube they stood on was broad, but it had no railings and extended over the empty chasm that made up most of the security level. Except for the maintenance markings along the top, there was no sign that anyone ever rode this far out.

Beau came up last, heavy enough to stop properly and shy away from Decepshun's warning snap.

"What a ride," Moordryd groaned, resting along his saddle and patting his dragon's head. "Steady, girl. I don't think Dragon Booster's trying to fall on you."

"Whoa," Artha said. "Look at that..."

The Precinct level, home of Dragon City Security, looked like a top sitting on a nest of wires, struts and tubes that led to the elevators dedicated solely to the police force's use. Normally the inverted structure sat surrounded by spotlights that followed the constant stream of the police and those they arrested, the elevators bringing in people from all levels. Dragons and people filled the multiple floors, escorting prisoners and guarding against attack from the Down City gangs.

But now the Precinct hung at an angle, sparks cascading from torn electrical cords and support beams. Many of the struts holding the Precinct's weight were bent or crumpled in places, leaving it tilted off its axis and swaying unsteadily.

"Is it Armeggadon?" Moordryd asked, coming up beside Artha. "I thought I felt his energy, but..."

"I don't think so," Artha said. "He might've been here before, but now...look at the corners, where the supports meet the precinct itself."

Their visors automatically magnified what they now focused on, showing them dozens of dragons attacking the supports. They hammered the Precinct with mag bursts, spreading cracks along the walls. Powerful claws raked at the welding while horns tore at rivets and cords. After a moment, a support beam gave way, and they all gasped as a handful of dragons slid off and plummeted into the darkness below.

"Magna Draconis..." Kitt pressed her hands to her face, a move completely at odds with the jagged flame-edges of her armor. "Why didn't they stop? They had to have known..."

"Why aren't any of them stopping?" Parmon asked. "No one will be left alive, human or dragon alike. It's suicide."

"...it's war," Moordryd said softly.

"What?" Artha looked at him.

Decepshun gave a whuff and a decisive nod.

"They don't care that they'll die," Moordryd whispered, staring at the dragons still attacking the Precinct despite their comrades having just fallen to their deaths. "They just want to take the humans with them."

"The whole city?" Artha demanded. "Are you kidding me?"

Moordryd met Decepshun's look, and he read the stern focus in her eyes.

"Yeah," Moordryd said, leaning back in her saddle. "They don't care. It's just hate and anger. It's...it's the war."

"The Dragon Human war," Parmon echoed. "Is this it, then? Is this how it starts?"

"Not if we have anything to say about it." Artha pointed up at the top of the tilted structure. "We can run the length of these transport tubes up there, try to get up above everything."

"And then what?" Moordryd asked. "All of them are riled up, willing to die! You can't talk them out of this!"

"Worse than that," Parmon said. "We can't mag these dragons anywhere safe. They've climbed onto the shafts over the empty space—if we fight, they'll fall."

"...I..." Kitt stood up in the saddle, her finger in the air tracing along the distant shafts and wires. "I think I got an idea. After that thing with Lance..."

She smacked her fist into her palm, decided.

"Parmon, I'm gonna need your help. And I'm gonna need time, but I think I can save everyone if you can keep that thing from falling."

"We'll give you all the time we can," Artha promised. "Shadow Booster, you can handle running on these things a lot better than me and Beau."

"You mean you'll have to go up slower," Moordryd said.

As Kitt and Parmon ran off in another direction, Moordryd and Decepshun both studied the mass, wincing as another support beam buckled, shaking both the structure and the levels above.

"What do you think, girl?" he asked. "Can we get up there in one piece?"

She whuffed, spreading her paws out to better stabilize herself. Gathering her power to herself, similar to when she had unlocked half of the gates of the ancient dragon temple in the past, she cast a mag burst out into the darkness, crashing into the bottom of the Precinct. With the tip of its floors broken into, the lowest level was revealed to be empty, with part of a staircase revealed in the wall.

"Looks like we're going up and through," Moordryd said, locking his boots into his stirrups. "Stay on our tail!"

As Decepshun darted out along the tube, Artha urged Beau after her. Every time she leaped to a new strut or beam, they managed to follow, even if Beau had to balance more tightly or use a stronger beam close by. Somehow Decepshun found a route that had at least one extra strut nearby that could bear his weight, and as they moved closer, Artha found that the dragons were the ones choosing their way.

That left their human riders to manage the debris falling from overhead, blasting away fragments before they could rain down sharp steel and heavy chunks on their heads. They were almost at the structure itself, Decepshun sprinting along a thick bundle of cords, when the human police became visible. They fired at the dragons, going so far as to lean out of the windows despite the shaking. Their electric bolts dwindled to nothing in the air, fired from too far to keep their charge for so long.

Artha grimaced as a human leaned out too far as the floor shook, falling out of a window and screaming into the darkness. He tried a mag beam, reaching as far as as he could, but the energy fell several dozen meters too short. A moment later it didn't matter as the man struck a beam, audibly snapping bones. His screams stopped short as his body fell the rest of the way. Artha turned his head, grabbing onto Beau's saddle less to hold on and more to steady himself.

"Get ready!" Moordryd yelled. "We're going up!"

At the speed they were going, that was less than a second of warning as they both leaped up into the broken Precinct. Then the struggle became less about balance and more about threading cramped corridors, charging up a staircase that chipped and cracked under their weight.

"I thought this place was built to handle dragons," Artha said, yelling in pain as his shoulder clipped against a stair railing. "No dragon wants to come down something this narrow."

"They're usually not galloping at full speed," Moordryd said. "Hold on, I think she's gonna take us up the stairs as far as she can."

"At least we don't have to fight through the hallways," Artha said.

"No, you don't get it, we—ugh!" Moordryd leaned down as far as he could in the saddle and shut his eyes. "You've never gone up a staircase like this. Try not to look or you'll get sick."

At first Artha didn't understand, leaning into the turn as Beau scrambled half along the stairs and half along the wall, jumping up to each new level as the Precinct tilted another degree. After the third level, the walls started to come closer and closer, feeling as if they were scraping against his eyes, and he ducked his head, trying to look at a single spot on his saddle. When that didn't work, he squeezed his eyes shut, but every turn and landing made his stomach lurch.

"Scales, scales, scales..." He grimaced, barely hearing Beau's apologetic growl. "How long is this gonna take?"

"Don't know," Moordryd said. "I can't look—"

The staircase, the wall and part of the floor above them blew inwards, chunks of steel pelting their armor. As the dust cleared, Decepshun snorted and pawed carefully to the edge of what remained of the floor, looking out into the abyss.

Blood coated the struts beneath them, green and red scales crushed under the heavy masonry that had just been smashed with a mag beam. The dragons who had not been killed kept working, ignoring heavy wounds to their sides and limbs.

"How could they have been driven into such a frenzy?" Artha breathed, hard pressed to make himself look.

"Thousands of years of slavery?" Moordryd said pointedly. "I'll bet anything that Armeggadon was here, turning the dragons against the humans."

"Only a grey dragon has that kind of power," Artha said.

"Not against themselves," Moordryd stressed. "It wouldn't take a dragon like Libris to cause this kind of anger. All Armeggadon would have to do is have his dragons talk to the other ones, tell them what it was like ages ago when we were equals."

"And that would make them kill themselves?"

Moordryd shook his head, not sure himself. Deciding that he was done talking, Decepshun turned them away from the collapsed stairs and walls, heading deeper inside to find another route.


	21. Chapter 21

Instead Artha and Moordryd found the main floor of the Dragon City Security Precinct, usually filled with men and women in uniform processing the criminals. The main floor was really a vast lobby with long benches for those waiting to be arraigned or interrogated, desks and offices for the amount of labyrinthine bureaucracy required for the work. Now all of that sleek, white furniture lay in heaps against the tilted wall, the desks and chairs spilled out of the broken windows now covered in blood.

Here the tilt was more destructive as people clung to anything riveted to the floor, using the decorative edging in the wall to pull themselves to the elevators. A line of police and prisoner alike clung to each other, gripping hands or uniforms, somehow managing to drag themselves into the pneumatic tubes that slowly evacuated the the structure.

Too slowly. Artha could tell they would never get even half the people out before the Precinct tumbled through the air and crashed. Someone lost their footing and slipped, sliding across the floor toward the shattered windows. Artha moved without thinking, feeling a deep satisfaction as he managed at least to mag this one, pulling him to the wall so he could duck into a darkened office.

Only when he released the mag energy did he recognize the uniform and the dark red hair cut close. Captain Faier, commander of the whole Precinct, stood in the doorway, one shoulder bloodied and hanging uselessly, the other holding a snub-nosed pistol at his side.

"Dragon Booster!" Captain Faier coughed blood, wiping more from his forehead. "I thought you were on our side!"

"What?" Artha reeled at the accusation. "I am! Why would you—"

"I think it's 'cause I'm here," Moordryd said. "Not exactly the darling of the security forces, y'know?"

Artha started to say something only to be cut off by Captain Faier's shot—badly aimed and missing him by a wide margin, but enough to make him flinch.

"Security!" the captain yelled. "The dragon boosters are the enemy!"

Not many could hear him amidst the screaming and panic and tearing steel, but those who could now immediately turned and took aim. Outside, the dragons were beyond their firepower, but the two boosters among them were easy targets. Artha saw their frenzied looks and looked for an exit, only finding each staircase clogged with survivors with guns.

"We can't get up to the top," Artha despaired, "if we're fighting the whole station."

"Correction," Moordryd said, "we can't, but you can."

"What?" Artha said. "No, I'm not leaving you—"

"Relax, I'll be fine," Moordryd said, turning and facing the captain with flaming eyes that narrowed in focus. "I've been itching for this for ages. You get up to the top and do whatever it is heroes do."

As Moordryd raised a shield around himself and Decepshun, they also sent out a mag pulse that pushed Beau across the floor to a broken elevator tube. Its entrance and pod lay in pieces on the floor, but it was more than wide enough for Beau to begin climbing. Carried along with no say in the matter, Artha looked over his shoulder until they left the level.

He was relieved to see Moordryd only drawing their fire, not returning it, and the few mag bursts he let fly went to breaking off large sections of the inner walls that conveniently fell and covered the gaping holes in the windows. Their thief may have wanted to lash out at the security forces, but he wasn't letting that spite control him.

"Don't let them hit you," Artha said over their helmet frequency. As Beau cleared the next floor, using mag inversions to boost themselves along, he heard Moordryd laugh once.

"Are you kidding? I've been wanting to toss around these scale-scrapers for years."

The rest of the way didn't take long. When they cleared the top floor, Artha blasted the side of the elevator open, and Beau stepped along the roof to the very edge. The mass of dragons—small red pursuit dragons, powerful green jail dragons, blue transport dragons still in their harnesses—lay before him, attacking the Precinct that had once housed them. They still had a way to go before they could truly rip the structure free, but he had no doubt they would continue until everyone on this level was dead. No one could stop them.

Except maybe a dragon of legend.

"So what exactly do heroes do?" Artha murmured, patting the side of Beau's neck. "Got any ideas?"

With a confident whuff, Beau gathered his strength and turned his energy inward, focusing himself. Here was the reason that he and Artha needed to climb all this way. Here, at the highest point, they could see all the dragons beneath them, and their energy could touch.

At first they were small and unnoticeable in the darkness. Then Beau's energy burned bright and expanded outward in a pulse, joined by Artha's dimmer but no less intense power. Like waves washing over the shore, their energy rolled over the people in the Precinct, the dragons outside.

Nothing happened. The dragons roared at the strange sensation moving past them, snapping at the air. Inside the Precinct, no one even noticed amidst the Shadow Booster's attacks, shouting as he tore pistols and rifles from their hands, tossed security officials away from floors just before they cracked open. Despite the danger, the Shadow Booster and his dragon both audibly snickered and laughed, infuriating anyone close enough to hear them.

And then the power failed, leaving the Precinct in utter darkness. At first they became aware of a vague red and green glow from outside, but that was drowned out by a wave of gold that moved by like rays of sunlight. Another followed, then another, giving them enough light to see the evacuation route, to clamber into tubes still fueled by outside electricity. They stopped firing at the Shadow Booster who seemed to vanish.

Without the humming machinery or fired shots, the station became eerily silent. The cries and yells became smaller, isolated, dwindling into frightened cries and murmurs. The pneumatic hisses of each pod told them how fast the evacuation was actually going, and the constant moving served to calm those waiting in lines.

Outside, the snarling and snapping and scraping steel raged as before. Hearing the struts bending until their groans became high pitched was only more terrifying. But it also let the energy of the golden dragon stand out that much more, and wave after wave slowly eased the blind self-destructive need of the dragons. The anger didn't fade, the indignity couldn't be washed away so easily—but the willingness to die and to condemn their own comrades began to dull. Dragons lifted their heads, looking at where they stood, at what they were actually doing to each other.

They smelled the blood of other dragons and realized that many were dead by their own actions.

Following Beau's route, Decepshun climbed out of the elevator tube, walking to the gold dragon's side. She sighed, looking out over the darkness, squinting at the green and red light glowing dimly from below.

Moordryd sighed with her, following her look.

"I don't know, either," he said. "Girl...do you feel kinda...?"

She whuffed once in agreement, shaking her head as if something was clouding her mind. On her saddle, Moordryd winced and didn't complain. The gold energy moved through them as well, bringing with it a deep sense of comfort. Camaraderie. Togetherness.

Parmon's thin voice came through their helmets.

"Is that it?" he asked. "Did you do it?"

"Maybe?" Moordryd said. "Stable brat's doing this weird energy pulse thing and the dragons have stopped trying to kill everyone. Still...Precinct's pretty messed up."

"I think we can begin to fix that," Parmon said. "If nothing else—"

On cue, a major support beam snapped. A jagged edge jutted out from the middle of the Precinct, the ragged end swinging out as a single dragon lost its footing, sliding off with a frightened squawk. The Precinct itself swung several degrees, jolting to a halt as emergency struts began to turn rigid. With the motion, a handful of officers slipped screaming from the upper floor.

Artha and Beau leaped, the dragon's wings flaring out so that they could glide on air currents. From the corner of his eye, Artha saw Decepshun jump, their fall more haphazard as she leaped, wingless, from broken strut to strut.

The fall ended faster than Artha expected. He managed to catch the officers along one mag stream and land them and himself on a lattice of red energy that hadn't been there before.

Spread like a cat's cradle across the entire level, thin cords of red draconium energy criss-crossed the empty air, forming a surface as rigid as any floor. If Artha squinted, he could make out the green draconium anchoring each cord like glue, welding the red draconium to the steel walls.

"Wow..." he breathed. "Kitt, are you—"

"Don't distract me," she said, her voice as taut as her energy. "Don't—"

Artha cut off the signal to her before she finished, understanding. He wouldn't risk even stray chatter breaking her focus.

"She can't hold this forever," Parmon said as he rode closer, refusing to look down. "It was tricky even building it. If we don't get off of it soon—"

His voice trailed. Artha frowned, turning to see what he was staring at. And his own mouth parted slightly.

The dragons were picking their way gingerly down the tubes and shafts, landing on the draconium net and facing off with the security forces. The police reached for guns that they no longer had, having dropped them long ago, easy targets for the growing number of their former mounts.

And Decepshun stood beside the dragon she had caught, amidst the crowd of dragons that was slowly coalescing into a small army. Her rider, with armor streaked by gunfire, his eyes glowing like the dragons around him, faced the humans as well. No one could mistake which side Moordryd stood with. Of a dozen falling humans and one falling dragon, Decepshun and her rider had been in complete agreement, counting the dragon's life as far weightier.

"Are..." Parmon whispered. "Are they going to start fighting again?"

Artha's jaw tightened.

"Beau...let's do this."

Without any hesitation in his step, Beau crossed the field to stand only a few lengths ahead of the army standing against him. They met Decepshun's gaze, glanced around for any other dragons willing to step forward, then realized that the flight was letting her stand in front as a leader.

"The Fire Booster is holding this energy field together," he called out loud enough that the dragons and humans both heard him. "But she can't hold it up forever. Everyone needs to get to safety."

He waved his hand at the maintenance and transport tunnels around them.

"There's plenty of room for everyone to head to the different levels...if you're willing to stop fighting."

The humans behind him scoffed, and one of them—Captain Faier again, Artha saw—took a step to set himself apart.

"They attacked the Precinct without warning," he said, coughing blood. "They'll charge us the moment we turn our backs."

The dragons growled, their tails snapping back and forth in agitation. Decepshun barked a short laugh, which Moordryd echoed.

"The dragons say the same," Moordryd said.

"They attacked out of nowhere," Captain Faier said, his voice streaked with deep betrayal. "My own Yuunitee...she almost bit my head off. Why? Where is she?"

More growls as the dragons conferred. Decepshun partly turned to look over her shoulder, and after a moment, she decided that she'd heard enough, grunting once. At her prompting, her rider answered for them.

"Dead," Moordryd said. "In resisting the humans' slavery of a thousand years. They only regret that they were killing themselves as well."

Captain Faier fell silent, stricken, turning from the others. Behind him, a lieutenant, her uniform torn and bloodied, came forward several paces until the dragons growled in warning. Close enough.

"That's it?" she asked. "Sekurity? You've saved my life twice...and then this?"

A blue dragon ducked his head and did not answer, neither looking at her nor the other dragons. Silence followed for a moment, underscored by the popping electricity and groaning steel above them.

"Will you let each other go?" Artha asked, looking at both humans and dragons. "Or are you going to fight until you fall into the darkness?"

"...they've killed people," Captain Faier said. He glared over his shoulder, wishing his stare could force them to look away instead of facing him calmly. "They've killed dragons."

Again the dragons snarled in conference. Again Decepshun listened, and Moordryd translated.

"They will again," Moordryd said, "if they have to."

Another silence, this time broken by Parmon's insistence that Kitt was nearing her limits. Artha gave an explosive sigh and started to back away. Let the stupid adults fight if they wanted to.

"The Fire Booster can't hold it any longer. If you want to fight, then be ready to fall."

He looked at Moordryd, waiting for him to come. Instead Decepshun turned, roaring at the pack of dragons behind her, spreading out her paws as if she meant to force them to retreat. At her look, the dragons turned tail and galloped out of sight. She glanced over her shoulder at Artha, then ran after the dragons, taking Moordryd with her.

Artha felt a hand grip his heart, sending cold chills through him. There hadn't been any expression through Moordryd's mask. His friend had stared at him blankly.

Beneath him, Beau brought the humans in the other direction. They stepped up off of the field onto a maintenance shaft, joining Parmon.

"Where is she?" Artha asked.

"I last saw her and Wyldfyre near the center," Parmon said.

"The center? Is she nuts? The Precinct could fall—"

"It was going to fall regardless," Parmon said, a satisfied note filling his voice. "Watch. We hatched an idea together..."

There was a burst of draconium energy as the lines of the net suddenly came together, humming as weaker strings merged together, strengthening as fewer and fewer remained. When they could only see two major lines left, both of them blazing red, they realized that the green anchor points were also sliding into position, joining each other into two bright spots. One string of draconium slid up under the Precinct, then pulled taut, supporting much of its weight.

"See how she's moving my energy around by herself," Parmon said. "This is her real ability, I think. The fire is just her main weapon—but fire is energy and so is draconium."

Artha frowned slightly. "But...then what does the Energy Booster do that's different?"

Parmon shrugged. "We won't know until we see more of his power. But—"

"Hey boys."

On a single line of draconium that stretched from the floor to an unseen point in the darkness, Kitt and her dragon strolled down like casual high wire artists, standing on the slender thread without any worries.

"Not bad, huh?" She looked over her shoulder. "Figure me and Wyldfyre can hold this up as long as it takes 'em to get the place tacked down."

"It isn't too much?" Artha asked. "You're holding it all up."

"Nah, it's still pretty stuck in place," she said. "A lot of the supports were snapped, but a lot of them are still up, too. Besides, it's really the green energy that's holding it in one spot. Otherwise it'd be vibrating like a string."

Parmon grinned at the recognition. "No problem. It practically holds itself."

"Can..." Artha couldn't fathom the strength holding the entire Precinct in place, even if only a fraction of its weight for a fraction of time. "Can you really leave it like that?"

"What? Oh, heck no," she said. "I'm gonna have to babysit this thing for awhile. If I go, the whole thing goes. Parm—um, Power Booster, too. He's gotta help me keep this thing steady. You, on the other hand..."

She paused, scanning the darkness around her. "Hey, where's Payne in the scales?"

"He..." Artha sighed. "I don't know what the heck happened, but I need to go find him. Are you going to be okay down here?"

Kitt looked past him to Captain Faier who was beginning to sag against the young officer's shoulder.

"Hey—how soon are people gonna come start fixing this?"

The officer glanced at Faier, figured he wasn't going to answer, and hefted him up slightly to better take his weight.

"We'd already called for help," she said. "There should already be engineers and mechanics coming, long distance technicians. But...if their dragons are going nuts, too..."

"I don't think so," Parmon reasoned. "There's been no further shaking of the megastructure and there was no sign of violence from the dragons in Midcity. Whatever happened...happened here."

"And no one knows what that is?" Artha asked.

The officer shook her head once. "Sorry...Sekurity got real quiet for a moment, and then he just started biting all of a sudden."

None of it made sense, and Artha found himself thinking more about the concrete problem that he could make sense of—what to do about Decepshun and Moordryd. Loathe to leave his friends behind, at their assurances, he turned tail and helped escort the humans to the very edge of the megastructure's walls where emergency lights and stairs gave them a place to wait for help.

The way back to the top level took longer than he expected—so many elevators had been snapped that he and Beau had to sit on top of a utility freight lift. Designed for moving tons of motors and gears, it had been too sturdy to be destroyed, but it also moved at a painfully slow pace. An hour passed, then two, as they napped in shifts, keeping an ear out as they stood guard.

Every call he sent out to Moordryd went unanswered.

"A Payne will lie to you," Artha said softly, "but he can't help but show you the truth."

But what had Moordryd shown him? That he had chosen the other side? Or that he would do whatever Decepshun demanded? Or some third option Artha hadn't thought of?

Of all the worst possibilities he could imagine—that Moordryd had returned to Armeggadon, that he had betrayed them for the dragons, that he had been killed under their fangs, that he had been found by Word—what he hadn't expected was to find Decepshun by the Penn Stables gate, Moordryd in her saddle, simply waiting for him to return.

Beau realized something was wrong before Artha did, stopping in his tracks. Artha pet his side, asking what was wrong, then understood the worry in his dragon's eyes.

Moordryd and Decepshun were at rest, breathing hard—and breathing in sync. As Decepshun took in a breath, so did her rider, so completely in tune that it couldn't have been coincidence. Moordryd's grip on his saddle was white-knuckled and trembled with unseen effort while his dragon braced herself, legs out, as if she might fall. Neither he nor Decepshun moved, but they both lifted their gaze up toward Artha. Their eyes moved the same, blinked the same, wordlessly pleading with the same fear.


	22. Chapter 22

No one else was on the street. The lights leading up to the gate had not been replaced, and the shadowy route did not encourage visitors, not when warnings were coming from what remained of the security forces. No one would venture out when dragons might suddenly turn on their riders.

With that solitude, Artha felt he could risk calling out Moordryd's name. When Moordryd didn't answer, Artha urged Beau closer only for his dragon to growl and balk at moving any further. Artha tugged at the saddle, then stopped himself and looked at Decepshun again.

She was breathing hard, yes, but her fangs were bared in a silent snarl. She stood taut and trembled with the tension of digging her claws so deep into the pavement that the street cracked and broke underfoot. Moordryd was clutching at his saddle, and Decepshun was clinging to anything in range.

Beau was so often the target of her whipping tail, no wonder he did not want to come within the reach of her bite.

"Okay, I get it," Artha said softly to Beau. "You stay here. I'll move closer. Just be ready to mag me back if she goes to bite my head off."

Beau grumbled his complaint that Artha was even considering it, and as Artha started to slide off, Beau gave a small mag burst that kept him firmly locked in the saddle. With a long-suffering gruff, Beau took a tentative step closer, listening to the pitch of Decepshun's growling. When nothing changed, he chanced moving a little more.

"Just hold still, you two," Artha said a little louder. "We're gonna come up beside Decepshun. If she leans against the wall, we can walk you into the stable."

Both Decepshun and Moordryd winced, dipping their heads, and Moordryd's low groan sounded strange as it echoed in her throat.

"Can't..." Moordryd said, his voice all consonants. "Gonna fall."

Artha and Beau came around and sidled up against Decepshun, nudging her so that her panting flanks touched the wall. With the gold dragon beside her, there was no way she could fall over. And yet she refused to lift a claw, instead pressing against Beau as if she needed yet one more point of contact to tell her which way was up.

"Are you sick?" Artha asked. "Is it like the poisoning before?"

Before they could answer, the gate in front of them swung open with a metallic scrape. Connor came out, staff in hand, but his gaze focused not on the boys but on the road. Staring in the distance, his eyes narrowed. The streetlamps glowed a lurid gold that created more shadows instead of light, and there was the chance that their neon flickering masked the transparent shapes of Word's wraiths. Or worse, the wisps of darkness of Armeggaddon's eight dragons.

"You need to come inside," Connor said softly. "Now."

"I don't know if they can," Artha said. "Should I just mag them over the wall?"

"I've activated the security grid," Connor said. "Nothing's coming over that wall. You need to bring them in through the gate."

Although his gaze never wavered from the street, Connor backed up enough that his quiet voice reached all of them.

"Moordryd," he said. "For now, stop thinking like a human. You don't have hands, you have four legs. Just imagine that and don't say anything."

"...what?" Moordryd started, but he cringed as his stomach clenched. Feeling as if he would slip from the saddle the moment she moved, he closed his eyes tight and lay low in his saddle. His mutters became softer echoes of his dragon's nauseated whimpering.

"Decepshun, one foot in front of the other." Connor tapped her right paw with the end of his staff, urging her to slide it forward. The claws retracted and she dragged it along the pavement. "Good, now a back foot."

Squeezed as she was between the wall and Beau, she trusted that they wouldn't let her tumble, keeping her eyes shut as took each step. She had to unlock each leg, making a visible effort each time to pick up each paw, and she pressed her tail down to the ground like a rudder.

"You're doing good," Connor said. "Just a little more."

"...what's wrong with us?"

Moordryd sounded like a lost child, blind and clinging to his dragon. Worse, Decepshun made strange sounds in her chest, groaning around the unfamiliar consonants and vowels like a rabid dragon. Artha instinctively froze, looking to his father for what to do.

"Nothing," Connor said. "It's just...happening faster than it should have."

There was nothing reassuring in his voice. He put his hand on the side of Decepshun's face, a lifetime of dragon training drawing her forward with his touch alone. In the saddle, Moordryd coughed and shook his head once.

"We're not kids," he muttered, and Decepshun whuffed agreement.

Connor patted her face again, bringing her around into the gate, angling Decepshun toward the stables.

"Lock the gate," Connor said. "But keep watch. Until I can get the monitors and the lights back up, I don't trust that we're really alone."

"Okay," Artha said, his worries overriding his exhaustion. "But are they gonna be—"

"I'll let you know," Connor said. "And Artha—don't try to face anything on your own. If you see something, tell us immediately."

"...sure."

Artha watched them slowly move across the sand, deep furrows in the sand from her claws and tail dragging heavily. Not knowing how long he'd have to stay by the gate, he sat back in his saddle and sighed. He felt the throbbing in his shoulder that he'd forgotten about, the overall soreness from trying to help Lance...he suspected that would linger for days.

Beneath him, Beau shifted and lay down on the sand with a tired huff. Artha heard the weariness in his voice and moved to dismount, but a jagged jolt of pain drove through his side and up his back. He stiffened, then eased back into the saddle.

"Sorry, Beau," he said. "I know you're tired, but is it okay if I stay up here for now?"

Beau nodded once, gently so he wouldn't jostle his rider, and lay the rest of himself on the sand. Artha felt the rough shifting of his dragon's bones and muscles and felt the accompanying aches in himself. If Artha had felt every crack and gap in the road, Beau had leaped and landed across each one.

Beside the locked gate, listening for the slightest scrape of claws outside, Beau and Artha settled down to wait, not knowing how long they would have to stand guard.

Both Decepshun and Moordryd assumed they were being led to Mare and their nestmates. Mare always knew what to do, and Mare always took care of them when they were sick. The heavy breathing of dragons in a pile, scales scraping as tails flicked during a dream, called to them to rest and sleep.

Instead Connor drew them toward the nearest empty stable and closed the door after them. He turned on the cold white lights and came around their side.

"If I had to guess," he said, "this feeling started when you removed your amulet and armor."

"Yeah," Moordryd said, echoed again by his dragon. "We tried...armoring up again..."

"And that just made it worse," Connor said as if he already knew the answer. "By the time you got here, you couldn't make yourselves take another step."

"We don't remember how we got here," Moordryd said. "Felt like we'd throw up the whole way."

"Really?" Connor asked. "Is that what it feels like?"

Decepshun's huff was immediate, but Moordryd answered more slowly, thinking about it for a moment first.

"I'm not sure," he said after a long moment.

"Think carefully," Connor said. "Do you feel dizzy...or do you feel like you're unbalanced?"

Moordryd scowled.

"I feel like you already know what's going on. So tell us so we can quit feeling like slag."

Connor hesitated, then nodded once. He warned Decepshun that he was going to tap the back of her paws, prompting her to put her legs out a little more and lay flat on her stomach. As soon as she was down, he tapped his staff across the back of Moordryd's hands.

"Hold my staff instead of the saddle," he said. "I'll help you come down."

"I wasn't kidding," Moordryd warned him. "It feels like I'll throw up."

"If you do, I won't hold it against you," Connor said. "And the further you go from Decepshun, the sooner both of you will feel better."

The promise to help his dragon made Moordryd move, clumsily hanging onto the staff as he dragged himself out of the saddle. He went backwards, clambering down so that Connor had to catch him as he stumbled back.

"You're falling—" Connor said as Moordryd's legs buckled.

"So lemme fall." Moordryd's voice slurred as he went to his knees, but despite his grumbling, he took Connor's help guiding him down so that he lay on his side.

"Still going to throw up?" Connor asked.

"...no." Moordryd curled up, splaying his hand across the floor as if grateful that he could feel it there, that he wasn't going to fall further. "What's wrong with us?"

Connor knelt beside him, tugging gently at the dragon-hide jacket to encourage him to shed it. Moordryd barely raised his arm so that Connor could begin pulling it free.

"To put it simply," Connor said. "You were in Decepshun's mind."

Moordryd didn't answer. He pushed himself up slightly so Connor could work the jacket out from under his shoulder, sliding it off his other arm. Immediately Moordryd sighed in relief as its weight disappeared.

"What felt like sickness was both of you receiving the input from two bodies. You felt like you were on four legs, and she felt like she was on two. She couldn't walk because she was seeing double, and she probably felt your confusion at feeling a tail."

Connor rolled the jacket up and set it under Moordryd's head.

"Somehow I don't think you're too surprised," Connor said.

Long seconds passed as Moordryd gathered his strength. The journey back from the Precinct had left him just as exhausted as Decepshun as both of them felt every step. Cold stable tiles under his body left him feeling more grounded, as if he could breathe deep without feeling like his lungs would burst. And without the disorientation, he could begin to make sense of what Connor was saying.

"She's a psi class," Moordryd said. "The academy book's called Tragedy of Psionics. You wanted to know my draconium levels. Doesn't take a genius."

"I honestly thought you had more time," Connor said. "The most attuned riders don't succumb for years, and even then it's rare. I only saw it once in the academy, and there are just two more incidents recorded by the Dragon Priests."

Moordryd let his eyes open to slits, enough to see Connor's concerned face, then tilted his head back enough to see Decepshun staring back at him. They shared a long look, both of them still breathing hard, and Moordryd didn't have to be in her thoughts to know what she was thinking. What they were both thinking.

"When it happens, who's in control?" he asked.

Connor frowned at such a mercenary question. Moordryd was very much Word's son.

"Depends on who's stronger willed. Sometimes the human, sometimes the dragon." Connor shifted to his other knee, easing the strain on his older joints. "But sometimes it doesn't matter. Dragon and human become one person, and they don't ever seem to come apart again."

"Even when the rider dismounts?"

"Even if the rider is separated by long distances," Connor said. "The book had an example of a rider who had to travel to another city, and the entire time until he came back, it was as if he was listening to orders inside his head. Whether that was actual telepathy or tearing a small part of his dragon's mind with him, there's no way of knowing."

Moordryd closed his eyes.

"Probably just as bad for the dragon," he whispered. His voice changed timbre as he recalled something he'd read from the academy texts. "'The war slipped from the empire's grip, however, as it always does—with both rider and dragon succumbing to their psionic pairing.'"

Connor recognized the quote. "You understood more of the book than you let on."

"I only got bits and pieces," Moordryd said. "Decepshun helped put the pieces together. Decepshun...oh scales..."

He put his arm over his eyes, curling even tighter.

"Of course the shadow booster cared about his dragon," he whispered. "After awhile...he _was_ his dragon."

Connor stayed a few more minutes to explain in more detail, to promise he would help both of them find out why this happened so much sooner and what they could do to try to reverse it. Moordryd stopped listening. It was too much to take in at once, and he only spoke to accept Connor's help back to the house. He would have stayed with his dragon, but not only did Connor argue that was a bad idea, Decepshun...

She growled and turned away, creeping back to Mare's stable and the comforting presence of her nestmates.

Moordryd almost crawled back to her side. Connor waited a moment, then gently brought him around, taking him back to the house.

"You can talk to her later," Connor said. "Let yourselves split apart more firmly. Your risk of falling into each other's minds should go down the longer you stay away from each other."

Half expecting to be dropped on the couch, Moordryd found himself brought down into the cave, taking the stairs one at a time. As they came to the main floor, footsteps came sprinting at them, accompanied by the mini-brat's ecstatic voice.

"Whoa, you really were in a fight!"

Moordryd tensed, half expecting to be tackled—and then his other arm was raised as Lance put his shoulder to his, taking the rest of his weight.

"Lance..." Connor warned.

"Man, you and Artha trying to see who can come bust up the most?" Lance asked. "Artha said the whole Precinct level nearly fell off and that all the dragons were attacking the humans, and that you and Decepshun took the dragons' side after everyone stopped fighting—is it true Artha radiated out gold draconium like before when that happened, like with the horn of Libris? He said Parm and Kitt stayed down there to keep the whole thing from falling—did they really make a web of draconium? That is so drac! And that a lot of people got hurt—Artha said that Captain Faeir looked messed up, and that a lot of dragons..."

His voice trailed off. "A lot of dragons..."

"Died," Moordryd said, glaring enough to make Lance duck his head. It wasn't fair when Lance was helping him walk, but Moodryd chafed at being seen this vulnerable. He poured more acid into his voice than he meant to, remembering the sound of dragons falling through the air.

"They rose up, the humans fought back, and the dragons tried to bring the whole Precinct level down." Moordryd half shrugged and grimaced as it didn't feel like his own arm.

"But why'd they attack the people?" Lance asked.

Moordryd growled, Decepshun's anger still fresh in his mind. "Being forced labor isn't enough of a reason?"

Connor slid out from his arm, leaving him leaning on Lance. As Moordryd sagged harder against Lance, muttering under his breath to hold still, Connor went to his monitors and hit several keys. Moordryd was about to complain that he wasn't up to any fancy draconium experiments when the sharp sound of steel on stone cut him off.

Two dark slabs slid horizontally from the wall, side by side, with grooves in their surface that marked out where someone would lie.

"You had this," Moordryd said softly, "and we've been sleeping on the floor?"

"Ah yes, that Payne pride..." Connor chuckled. "These are old medical beds handed down from the dragon priests. They're meant for evaluating more advanced draconium ailments. Unless you want to listen to them humming all night?"

"What humming?" Moordryd asked, sidling up against the bed and managing to bring one leg up onto the surface. As he lay down, his head eased into the smoothed notch near the top, and he became aware of a deep rolling whisper that seemed to come from everywhere around him.

With a gasp, he sat bolt upright, looking around the darkness.

"It's okay," Connor said, expecting that. "There's no one there. It's just the sound of the machines."

"They're...saying things." Moordryd gripped the stone edges, refusing to lay down again. "That's not humming, that's whispering."

"You hear whispering?" Connor frowned, then glanced at his monitors. Only half of them had been replaced, and of those, a bare handful were lit. "And the Order hasn't seen fit to answer me...convenient."

He tapped the rim of his workstation, glancing at his son. Lance flinched under his look. Although he stood as tall as Moordryd, the freckles across his nose acted like a reminder of his real age, the unkempt mop of hair that looked more childish for how he'd tried to drag a comb across it once or twice.

"Lance..." Connor started, loathe to say the words. "Can I trust you to stand guard at the gate?"

Lance's eyes went wide. "Wha...really?"

"It's not exciting," Connor said quickly. "It's usually boring standing around and hoping nothing happens. I need someone out there until I can fix the machines in here, and that could be hours of staying alert. But Artha's too hurt, and—"

"I can do it," Lance promised. "I _will_ do it. No one's getting by me—"

Beside him, Moordryd gave a dry chuckle.

"You'll fall asleep in five minutes," he said, smiling wanly when Lance glared at him. "Or start playing games."

He looked up at Connor. "There are easier ways to serve us up to Armeggaddon. Or were you trying to hand me off to my father?"

"Just you watch," Lance said in a pout. "I'll be a better guard than anyone else here."

As Lance ran up the stairs two at a time, Moordryd watched him go, chuckling to himself.

"We'll have wraiths in here before you know it," he said.

Connor would have scolded him if he didn't hear the forced lightness in Moordryd's voice. He and Decepshun had scared themselves with their unexpected mind touch, and now they faced the inevitability of losing themselves in each other.

"It's going to be okay," Connor said. "We'll find a way to stop you and Decepshun from permanently bonding."

Moordryd smiled without humor. "Sure. The ancients couldn't stop it and the academy couldn't stop it, but somehow we'll manage with just a couple old books and my father and Armegaddon breathing down our necks."

"Actually, I think so," Connor said. "Your draconium levels are higher than I've ever seen before. It's what caused this in the first place, and I'd bet it's what saves you from merging with your dragon."

Not arguing but not agreeing either, Moordryd shrugged again and took some relief at his arm feeling like his own again. At Connor's motion, he sighed and lay back down again.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"Elevated draconium levels," Connor said, sitting so he could read his computer screen. "And where your draconium is specifically localized. And...was Lance right that Artha and Beau radiated out gold energy?"

"Yeah, at the end," Moordryd said. He focused on Connor instead of the sibilant whispering coming from the machine, which he couldn't understand anyway. Recounting the fight took no time as he described the run up through the Precinct, but he slowed as he came to describe how he faced Artha from the other side. Maybe telling Artha's father wasn't so smart when he could barely sit straight.

"You stayed behind to distract the entire Precinct?" Connor asked, smiling to himself. "Why am I not surprised? Word might not admit it, but he's going to be insanely jealous."

"My father?" Moordryd turned his head sightly.

"He never told you about his younger days? You're downright polite compared to him. Believe me, he would have loved nothing better than tossing officers out into the open."

"Well, didn't exactly throw them out," Moordryd said. "I wasn't trying to..."

The thought hung between them. In all the chaos of the power flashing on and off and the officers shooting at him, he'd been trying to drag them back from the smashed windows. Upon reflection, he could imagine his father hurling the men and women out into the darkness below. Easily.

Connor didn't say anything else, and Moordryd didn't push. He lay still, slowly growing bored as he waited, half wishing he had a game to play, anything to take his mind off the jumbled memories of being in Decepshun's thoughts.

"Dad? You down here?"

Gripping the rail with one hand, Artha came down the stairs slowly, his other hand pressed against his side. As shallow as his breathing was, he smiled gamely.

"Artha!" Springing up, Connor rushed to his son's side, helping him down the last few steps. "I didn't realize you were this badly injured."

"Nah, it isn't that bad," Artha said. "Just knocked against the saddle when I came off Beau."

"Still. You haven't recovered from your other injuries, and then this..." Connor helped him onto the other medical bay, shaking his head. "I should have brought you in immediately."

"Relax, I'll be fine," Artha said, lying down with a sigh. The surface was hard, but it felt grooved especially for him. "Geez, dad. All this time we've been sleeping on the floor, and you had these?"

Moordryd laughed once. "S'what I said."

He felt a touch on his hand. Without looking, Moordryd turned his palm up to hold Artha's hand in return.

"You better?" Artha whispered. "What happened?"

Not answering at first, Moordryd gave a heavy sigh, relaxing fully. Something about Artha's voice, low and intimate, pitched so no one else would hear, made him settle more comfortably. Normally he heard Artha on the track shouting over galloping dragons or amid the blasts of gunfire and mag bursts. To hear him like this, with words no one else was meant to hear...

"You're not mad at me?" Moordryd asked.

"No," Artha said, but his obvious hesitation made him wince. "I mean, I hated seeing you on the other side. I was afraid we were going to fight, and all I know is that I don't want to fight you."

His hand tightened on Moordryd's, and from the way his voice moved, Moordryd could tell that Artha was leaning up on one arm, looking over to him.

"But if you hadn't been there," Artha continued, "then I don't think that we could have talked to the dragons. Because it was you and Decepshun."

"She did most of the work," Moordryd said. "They talked to her. I just..."

"Translated?" Artha asked. "Can you understand them? Like, more than just simple yes and no's."

Despite how Artha lowered his voice, their conversation carried easily in the quiet cave, echoing along the walls. Moordryd knew that Connor was listening.

"It's not...I don't..." He frowned. "It's not like that. It's not like their conversations are that complicated. They're hungry, they're tired, that kind of thing. They aren't that interested in more than that."

Artha was silent for a moment.

"Decepshun is," Artha said finally.

Moordryd smiled despite himself. Pride in his dragon didn't fade even if she was dangerous to him now.

"She was bred for intelligence," Moordryd said. "Smartest dragon in the world."

"Well, she'd give Beau a run for his money," Artha said, his own pride refusing to give in. "But you can talk to her a lot better than I can talk to Beau. I mean, you were translating for them."

Moordryd was silent for a long moment, long enough for Artha to realize that something was wrong. Artha glanced at his father, but Connor only waved at him to stay quiet and wait.

"I wasn't translating," Moordryd said. "Not really."

He sighed again, wondering what was keeping Connor from finishing his scans and hoping it wasn't another instance of needing hours to find what he was looking for.

"The dragons talked to her, and I heard them. I heard them the way she did—she gets their emotions a lot clearer than I do. And then she told me what to say."

There was a long pause.

"She told you what to say?" Artha asked. "You could hear her?"

Moordryd hesitated, then nodded once.

Artha asked him other questions, trying to draw out what he meant, but Moordryd didn't answer. It was easier to pretend to sleep, holding Artha's hand, wondering what it would be like when he couldn't think for himself because Decepshun would be in his thoughts. She would tell him what to say, what to do. And he would obey without thought, because hers would be the only thoughts in his head.


	23. Chapter 23

Moordryd slept in Artha's bed that night.

Not to do anything more than sleep—he dropped his jacket on his boots by the door and climbed in fully clothed, feeling like he was sinking heavily into the mattress. Behind him, chuckling awkwardly, Artha left his pants and shirt on, not sure what to make of having Moordryd there.

Connor had insisted they sleep on something softer than pallets on the stone floor, to rest their injuries more gently. He'd made no protest when Moordryd simply said he was claiming half the stable brat's bed. Other than a small glance at Artha to see if the teen would argue, Connor hadn't complained at all.

Had he felt some measure of sympathy for Moordryd? Thought that being close to Artha would help keep him sane? Whatever the reason, he didn't seem to doubt that they would do anything more than sleep. And keeping their former enemy leashed more closely to Artha was just good strategy.

Moordryd had already pulled one of the sheets up over himself. Artha let it be and lay down beside him, the sheet between them making him a little less worried about what Moordryd expected. Nothing interesting could happen between a sheet, after all. As Artha pulled the blanket over them, however, Moordryd leaned in close, pillowing his head just under Artha's chin, arms tucked expertly so they didn't get in the way.

A Payne will never tell you the truth, Artha thought, sitting on the edge of the mattress. But he can't help but show you.

With an exasperated smile, Artha flopped down like his dragon, losing some of his awkward fidgeting as Moordryd grumbled and worked closer.

You got scared, Artha thought. And you want a stable brat between you and the world right now.

He tried to find a place to put his arms. He managed to scrunch one up under himself, knowing it would be sore the next day, but his free arm hung between them both until he finally screwed up the courage to drape it over Moordryd's shoulders.

To his relief, the other boy didn't murmur, breathing more deeply as he slept.

Halfway during the night, the tower rumbled. Artha woke briefly as his father moved past, and Connor reassured him that he should go back to sleep. One dragon priest and a sleepy fire booster and power booster would be able to handle it. The thought of resting while Lance played watchman made sleep a little harder, but Artha reminded himself that there was an entire flight of black dragons and Decepshun also resting in the stables.

They both woke to the sound of the gate swinging wide to allow in Connor's dragon, and then it clanged reassuringly shut. Artha almost climbed out of bed to look, but Moordryd's hand crept up his shoulder and pulled him back to the pillow.

"Stay put," Moordryd murmured, his voice muffled against Artha's shirt. "They're fine. Back to sleep."

"You're not even curious?" Artha asked.

"'Meggaddon tried something," Moordryd said, not opening his eyes. "Didn't work. Go t'sleep."

Artha didn't fall back asleep, but he lay still for a long while, watching the minutes tick by on his clock and watching Moordryd's chest rise and fall. He didn't think Moordryd was asleep either, but lying together like this...was nice. Warm. Comforting to have someone beside him, someone who trusted him. Someone whose side fit neatly in his hand, and who made a tiny murmur as Artha pulled him closer.

The bones under Artha's hand were prominent with youth, but the muscle cording them moved satisfyingly under his fingers. Without his dragon-hide jacket, Moordryd lost a lot of his physical presence—the boy in his bed was thinner than Artha, and pale against his own ruddy skin.

"Don't you ever tan?" Artha wondered. "Your dad's citadel reaches the top level, doesn't it?"

"Hard to see the sun when I'm stealing dragons at night," Moordryd murmured. "Sleep, dammit."

Artha couldn't help a small laugh.

"We've slept for like ten hours. How are you still tired?"

"If you don't go back to sleep and stop asking stupid questions," Moordryd grumbled, tucking his head down against Artha's chest, "then I'll ride Decepshun right through your room."

Artha couldn't help laughing at the thought, but he obliged and lay down again, finding that he could easily nestle his arm around Moordryd. And Artha admitted to himself that he really was tired, that he needed more rest. The sleep he'd enjoyed so far had helped, but he could use a lot more. And Moordryd's steady breathing lulled him back into closing his eyes and relaxing, settling into sleep.

In his arms, Moordryd lay still, breathing as if asleep, yet very much awake.

Things were happening so fast that he felt like they were stealing time to lie like this. The momentary calm was an illusion-how many small skirmishes had they slept through, small uprisings that Kitt and Parm and Mortis put down while they risked using Lance as a guard? There was no time to rest, although Moordryd could almost feel the strain in his body beginning to relax, could feel the bruises fade.

But Decepshun still echoed in his head, and he knew he'd have precious little time to think. So he had to plan now, while he stole a moment to do so.

What did he want?

Connor had asked him that back at the start of all of this-it seemed like years ago-and Moordryd was no closer to an answer now than he'd been before.

He wanted to survive the war.

He wanted his crew and his father to survive the war.

He wanted Artha as well. He'd obsessed over his rival before, but now...the arm around him was a warm comfort. Artha held him close without being suffocating, his laughs were good natured and not sardonic. His concern was real.

Artha was nothing like Rivett. The Mechanist had been brash, bold, exciting...and utterly dismissive about anything that Moordryd cared for. "A dragon utopia? You're as mad as your father." His insults were soothed away with kisses that left an inexperienced Moodryd forgiving every slight, and Moordryd had almost thought that Rivett had deliberately impressed him and taken him to bed. But the casual way that Moordryd had been tossed aside, waking up to a twenty credit chip on the pillow beside him...

No, he told himself. He didn't have time to curse Rivett again.

What did he want?

To stand beside Decepshun, first human in a society ruled by dragons. He'd said it often enough. And he believed it. But he flinched to think that he would lose his own mind to do so. He didn't want to be her glorified gear. Even the enslaved dragons could boast that they had their own minds.

He wanted to be the Shadow Booster. He wanted to be recognized. He wanted excitement. He wanted Artha.

And he didn't want anyone to die.

But to do that, Armeggaddon had to be stopped, maybe even destroyed. And Armeggaddon had eight pure black dragons to draw from. The boosters, while formidable, could only boast five dragons, not counting Connor's dragon. Even if Word could be convinced to join them...

Moordryd caught himself.

No. They had more dragons. They had a whole flight of black dragons. He couldn't ask his old nannydrag to fight, but the rest of them, what Connor had called his nest mates...if he asked...

If Decepshun asked.

He wanted to win the war. To do that, he needed live up to his beliefs. And to do that, he needed to talk with Decepshun.

Wanting nothing more than to stay in bed, Moordryd instead slipped out from under Artha's arm and stepped back into his boots, shrugging on his jacket. At the door, he glanced over his shoulder at Artha, now frowning in his sleep.

"Sorry, stable brat," Moordryd whispered. "I have to..."

Closing his eyes, he turned and silently moved through the house, heading to the stables.

The stadium was quiet, save for the dull hum of the security grid. At the entrance, Parmon snoozed in his armor, balanced on his dragon as Cyrano kept watch. In the stable closest to the gates, dim lights remained on behind a half-closed shutter as both Kitt and Lance slept beside their dragons. Both of them slept in their armor, their helmets at hand.

Moordryd glanced up at the haze of the higher levels of midtown and the distant spires that vanished into the gloom. Flickering neon lights and streetlamps were all that lit the darkness, the perpetual twilight of the city where little sunlight fell, and yet for all the cramped alleys and apartments looming overhead, he felt more like he was constantly exposed. Dragon City felt like a hollow web of highways and roads where he could fall through at any moment and never be found again, lost in the vast scaffolding and steel girders that held the city together.

Living in the city felt like walking a tightrope that grew narrower and narrower until he was balancing on a razor. Now, as he felt Armeggaddon on one side and his father on the other, each pushing and pulling at him, perhaps it would be better to let someone else do the deciding-someone stronger, faster and with the wisdom of an ancient spirit from before even the first war.

To his surprise, he found his dragon sitting in the middle of the sand, likewise staring up at the higher levels. Her front paws were curled in as her tail idly turned back and forth.

He almost lost his nerve. One thing to imagine inviting her into his head, but quite another to have her right there. He stood watching her, seeing her claws longer than his head, the powerful muscles that could crush bones. She'd already changed so much, absorbing the Vysoxx bonemark and becoming a dragon of pure black draconium.

Wincing, not sure what to say, he put his hands in his jacket pockets and scuffed his feet along the sand so she knew he was there. Not that she hadn't heard him before, but as she turned her head and watched him approach, the courtesy was appreciated.

To his relief, he felt none of the pull from before, none of the strange sensation of having four legs and fangs for teeth. She likewise relaxed, inviting him closer with a wave of her tail.

For a long moment, they simply looked up at the twinkling lights. Sometimes, in the still morning hours before dawn, they'd sat together in the Dragon Eyes Crew headquarters, relaxing after a long night of work. After so many years, it was often their only time to be alone.

"I was thinking..." Moordryd started. And paused.

She glanced sideways at him.

"I..."

He looked up at her, hesitating. There wasn't anything he could say. They both knew what had happened, how they had lost themselves in each other. Lost in feeling two different bodies, they only thing they had understood was fear and panic.

"Connor says it shouldn't have happened so fast," Moordryd tried again. "That my draconium levels are really high. From being raised with you, I guess. We just fit together easily."

She snorted.

"And he said that maybe me having this much draconium in me...maybe we won't merge permanently."

He shared her look. Neither of them was optimistic about that. He swallowed once, glancing at the sand.

"But...if it comes down to it...maybe if I don't fight it, maybe if I give in..."

He turned to face her, still looking down at the sand.

"If you promise that I won't just be a glorified piece of gear, that I'll still be me. That I..." He stopped. "That maybe I can...try and see what this thing with stable brat is. I..."

Her snout, larger than his head with fangs as long as his hands, came up under his chin and gently tapped his head up. He reacted out of sheer muscle memory, giving her nose a pat.

"I guess that's what any dragon thinks of their rider, huh?" He sighed. "Everyone thinks I'm crazy or stupid. That even father doesn't believe in dragons ruling."

She gave him a headbutt strong enough to make him stumble and affectionate enough to make him smile. And then she looked into his eyes and he understood what she wanted.

They transformed, the Shadow Booster beside Decepshun, now the whisper of an ancient dragon, and she lifted him up to his usual place just behind her head. But clearly she wouldn't be wearing a saddle anymore, and he found that her spines gave him good handholds and a place to stand, hanging on easily as she looked this way and that. And as she took her first lap, Moordryd discovered that not having a saddle meant that he could move down to her shoulders and along her back. In losing a solid foundation to joust, he gained the ability to attack and defend against all directions.

More than that. He felt the touch of her mind, then the overwhelming sensation of losing himself as he felt her whole body around him. As he dropped along her back, hands on her shoulders, he no longer felt dizzy or out of his own body. He felt every stretch and pull of her legs and responded in kind to keep balance. He even drew his jackstick and held it at the ready, and when she spun to one side, her tail drifting along the sand, he could then spring up her back, leaping at their imaginary enemy.

He landed, his stick slamming end first into the sand, and he remained kneeling, not trusting himself to move without knowing where she was. And she responded in kind, drawing him back like an arrow to be fired once more.

"Again," he said, agreeing with her intentions. "This is a new way to ride. We have to practice."

Her spirit laughed. A very old way to ride that they had to relearn.

That she now controlled the fight went unsaid. Something echoed in time, a memory carried in the armor of another booster who gave up his empire and his self for the good of his dragon. Maybe everyone was right that no one but Moordryd believed that dragons should rule. But Decepshun agreed. Now, on the edge of a new war, perhaps she would find a way to win where no human had before.


End file.
